


A Winter in the Sun

by liil, loveywife



Series: Ice Dog and the Loneliest Yeti [1]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (sorta) - Freeform, Artist Steve Rogers, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Peggy Carter, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes & Sam Wilson Friendship, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Barnes Returns, Confused Sam Wilson, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hydra (Marvel), Kid Natasha Romanov, M/M, Minor Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Natasha Feels, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Oblivious Steve Rogers, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Natasha Romanov, Protective Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Starbucks, Steve Feels, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson Friendship, Steve Rogers Feels, Stucky - Freeform, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 16:22:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 80,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5934964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liil/pseuds/liil, https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveywife/pseuds/loveywife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Kiss me once, and kiss me twice,<br/>Then kiss me once again,<br/>It's been a long, long time.<br/>Haven't felt like this, my dear,<br/>Since I can't remember when,<br/>It's been a long, long time.<br/>You'll never know how many dreams<br/>I've dreamed about you,<br/>Or just how empty they all seemed without you,<br/>So kiss me once, then kiss me twice,<br/>Then kiss me once again...<br/>It's been a long, long time."</p><p>Bucky's return after the fall of HYDRA, his journey of self-discovery, acceptance and his acclimation to modern life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I wished on the moon, for something I never knew.  
> I wished on the moon, for more than I ever knew.
> 
> I wished on the stars to throw me a beam or two,  
> I begged of a stars and asked for a dream or two.  
> I looked for every loveliness, it all came true...  
> I wished on the moon for you."

Steve’s having a nice dream, an indistinct phantom lover caressing his cheek gently, strong fingers tangling messily in his hair. He can’t see their face or anything really defining about them, but it feels nice. It’s not necessarily erotic, just… intimate. Comforting. He hasn’t known touch like that since  _ before,  _ not since Peggy… And he hates to admit it, hates to seem ungrateful, but he misses that. He misses the feeling of being loved. Sure, Natasha has attempted to fix him up with friends of hers, civilians they see on missions, and in general has resorted to other strangers, and even a threat to sign him up for some sort of online dating service if he does not accept one match soon, but those girls, nice as they are, don’t intrigue him. They’re all so young, for one thing, not just in years but in mentality. Speaking with girls was hard enough for him before he spent 70 years trapped in the ice and missed out on half of their lifespan. They cannot relate, and he cannot become invested. Does that mean he should neglect his desire to be loved, just for their sake? He would never admit to Romanoff the soft, lonely feeling that creeps up on him in the nights when his apartment shadows feel too dark, but in his dreams, is he not allowed to indulge a little? In the very recesses of his mind, a man should not be forced to be alone just because he is on the outside. 

He reaches out and his hands meet , broad, square shoulders, the skin warm as he smooths his fingers questioningly over the shoulder blades, jutting sharply out from beneath the muscle. Were they always there? He’s almost certain that this indeterminate figure has always had indeterminate shoulders as well. The fingers in his hair slide down to cup his jaw sweetly. He could be like this with someone willing, he could. He tries to look up into the face of the person in front of him, but there’s a creeping, curling mist fogging before his blue, confused eyes and Steve can’t seem to get a clear view. He resigns himself to the empty anonymity of it, no longer enjoying the contact. Now, it just feels hollow and devoid of meaning. He keeps his hands steady on the shoulders, as if magnetically bound by the heat coming off of the bare skin in waves, no matter how many times he considers pulling them away. He continues to stare straight into the fog, not sure why. Perhaps he hopes it will fade and he will be able to see his companion’s face, their smile lilting as the voice murmurs low words between them, ducking closer until their foreheads press together, or perhaps he watches to ensure the fog will not go away, and he will be safe from the reveal of whomever this is he fantasises about.

As dreams do, after what feels like hours, everything seems to suddenly meld together to form a new surrounding. Steve won’t remember this in the morning. A new setting materializes around him, the familiar sounds of gunfire and explosions heavy in the air. There are trees, thick and green, towering around him and a cloudy mist swirls in on his left. He recognizes the alpine terrain of southeastern France, and his body responds accordingly, tense in the sudden atmosphere. The shield is out before he can even think about it, and he readies his M1911A1. All at once, the din of battle from behind the trees grows unbearably loud and innumerable German soldiers swarm out. They hiss at him and their teeth are strangely pronounced. Steve realizes they have no gums, no tongue. He fires his gun and he knows he hits several of them, but they just keep advancing. He takes a step backwards, but he’s closed in, trapped, his pulse beginning to pound in his ears. More of the strange soldiers appear, and he tosses the shield in an attempt to clear a path. Those in the line of fire fall to the ground with an odd rickety clatter, jerkily getting back up to their feet. Steve can feel a coldness setting in, encircling around him in an uncomfortable way, though he can tell it does not bother these men. He’s afraid, for once. Somehow, he knows that no one is here to help him. No Howling Commandos, no Avengers. He is alone, and that is the last thing he ever wanted to become.

 

“That is how we died.” The soldiers all open their mouths in unison as one awful raspy voice pours out. “We were afraid when you killed us. Afraid and alone, as you will be.”

 

“I-I didn’t mean to--It wasn’t--” Steve chokes out, his voice feeling forced from his throat in his unwillingness to converse with this terrifying mass. Yet, he feels compelled to answer, to defend himself, in his sudden moment of floundering to understand what is going on. He is incredibly confused, and frightened. Everything feels wrong, like his muscles are seizing up in a quick panic, even as every enhanced nerve ending shrieks at him to run.

 

The air becomes sharp as that voice laughs, a horrible sound like glass and bits of rusting metals grinding together like teeth set on edge. “Did you even know who any of us were? Did you understand that we were human beings as well? Fighting for our country and our families too? Many of us were no more than children. Others had children and wives they longed to go home to.”

 

“You were killing innocent people!” Steve tries to protest, his voice unnervingly shrill and desperate to his own ears.

 

“As if you have not?” It spits at him, jeering in an almost incredulously cocky manner. “You deceive yourself, thinking you are a righteous man. Many of the lives you have taken belonged to innocents. They were not yours to take. You are no better than any of the men you have sworn to fight.”

 

He shakes his head, pleading with them to believe him, pleading with himself as they confront his inner guilt, “That’s not true. I never--I only…” The soldiers are only a few steps away, and they get closer with every second. He’s running out of time, and yet a sinking feeling in his chest tells him that no matter what he says or does, they will come; angry and unholy and menacingly dangerous, they will reach him. 

 

“Please…” He says finally, weakly. There is nothing else for him to say, no other route to try, no solution. 

 

“Do you not believe in justice for all, American?” The voice taunts, the words changing eerily in pitch as the monotonous voice draws out its words. “This is your justice. Welcome to Judgment Day. You are not the man your mother wanted you to be. You have failed her. You have failed Dr. Erskine and Agent Carter. You have failed yourself and you will face a reckoning.”

Steve lashes out in desperation, and manages to knock off the helmet of one of the soldiers. He recoils instantly at the sight of what is underneath. Empty black sockets bore into him as if drawing out his soul, white bone gleaming. He is transfixed, mouth falling open in horrified shock as the vacant pockets suck away any thought in his mind beyond their echoing stillness. The skull is stained with blood and patches of flesh still cling to it in places. Steve feels acutely sick and his vision swims. He tries to scream but he can do little more than whimper.

 

The voice is laughing again, and it fills his ears, that terrible hissing voice, and all of the soldiers remove their helmets, revealing gruesome bones underneath. “We are the dead, Captain Rogers. Death clings to you like a shroud. We are here because you put us here. Join us.” Their skeletal fingers reach for him, joints clicking together as though unhinged, as he tries to scramble away, but he’s still closed in.

 

“I can’t, please! I’m scared!” He moans, feeling skittish as a cornered animal about to meet his demise. He feels like he’s 8 years old again, and when he reaches out to shield himself, he realizes that his hands are the hands of a child. He closes his eyes and tries not to sob into the bony, minute knuckles rubbing at his eyes as the tears fall, tries not to let his fear show.

 

“Steve,” The voice croons, dry and reptilian. “Poor, sweet Steven… Open your eyes, dearest. Don’t you understand? A life demands a life. I gave mine for you. Now your time is up.”

 

He opens his eyes, confused, and is even more baffled by what he sees. Another scream catches in his throat as slender, rotting fingers press against his face. This skeleton is familiar, long blonde wisps of hair stuck to the decaying scalp. “Ma…” He forces out, voice cracking, “Please, don’t…” She has arrived, but she is not there to protect him. He almost wishes he could reach out to her, hug her hips and wet them with his tears until she hushes him, makes it alright… But he knows there will only be bones protruding from her sides, and that she is there against him.

 

The skeletal smile morphs into a snarl. “You’re a failure, Steven! You don’t understand the price of life, even after I died to make you learn! You’re ungrateful, reckless! You killed me and you’ve killed countless others! From the moment you were born, you’ve been a curse! A good man? How can you be good when death runs in your veins?”

 

“I never wanted to kill anyone,” he pleads, holding out his hands in-what? Surrender? Pity? A cry for help? 

 

“Look around, Steven,” The corpse of his mother groans, voice sounding as clouded and mottled as mouth full of cobwebs and stale, brown leaves can, “Look at what you’ve done. All the lives you’ve cost.” More bodies pour forth from the trees, now wearing the uniforms of allies as well. There are Americans, English, French resistance… He watches as the skeletons of young children step forward, and then the bodies of his friends, the Howling Commandos, Colonel Phillips, Dr. Erskine… A skeleton that wears blood painted across its mouth and teeth like red lipstick… Another in a blue jacket, missing an arm.

 

“But you aren’t--You’re not…” He’s crying full out now, and he can’t stop. His small frame trembles like a leaf, and his muscles get even stiffer as liquid streaks down his dirty cheeks, the scent of death wafting all around his nose with every shuddering inhale. 

 

“Dying is as good as dead,” Peggy’s bones tell him in a hushed rustle, forcing him to lean in closer to hear her even as his stomach flips when one finger traces a tear, dripping off of the bridge of his nose, “Are we even alive anymore when we can’t remember who we are?”

 

Bucky’s remains leer at him, voice deep and harsher than Steve’s ever heard it used against him, “You did this to us. I died in that ravine for you. You’re a murderer.”

 

“Killer! You belong with the dead.” They spit in unison, and the words seem to echo through the forest, caging him in no matter where he turns, “Join us.”

 

“No, no!” He yells, hands moving to cover his face, scrubbing at his eyes and cheeks as though that might erase the scene before him. He tries to struggle as they grab for him, but his body won’t respond. He tries to block with his frail arms, but as he puts them up, he realizes that his flesh is falling away to dust, tickling his nose before that too falls away, leaving only bone in its place. His face rotting away, his muscles decaying, the last, mournful cry wrenches itself halfway from his throat before his vocal cords shrivel away to nothingness. He is dying. He is dead.

 

A scream rends itself from his throat and he bolts upright, chest heaving, feeling crammed into the small chair. Beside him, Sam is gazing at him closely, bleary eyed from his own rest, in shock. Steve finally catches his eye, and Wilson awkwardly backs off, clearing his throat as he realizes he’s been   
staring.

 

“Sorry… I just, you woke me up, and I know what you’ve been through. I just, never saw it affect you like that before. I don’t know why I’m surprised, I—sorry.” He mumbles, hunching back against his airplane seat as they begin to descend. 

 

Steve’s stomach drops with the plane as he tries to shake off the shadow of the nightmare still lingering in the corners of his mind. He tells himself it wasn’t real, and that he’s safe here with Sam, on this little plane. Soon the aircraft will land in D.C., and he’ll be able to return to a home he hasn’t seen in a long time. But that home will be empty, and he’ll resume a life he’s still unused to. He’s combating a new world by himself, and he always did do better with someone by his side. He wishes it wasn’t empty-handed. For once, just once, he wants to get back one piece of his old life he’d never dreamed he could have again. Apparently, as their failure indicates, this is too much to ask of the world, even with all that he has done for it. 

  
  


When he returns home, the smell of the airport terminal still clinging to his clothes, it takes the Captain a shamefully long time to notice the grungy man standing in the corner of his bedroom, wrapped in the shadows cast by the orange glow of street lamps through his apartment window. The blond man enters the room with a tired exhalation and drops down on the foot of the bed, reaching for his feet to remove his boots. He kicks them off slowly, because damn, taking on threats to the peace and security of his nation is tiring, and as he's lying back, he finally becomes aware of the other presence in the room. He starts, but regains his composure and sits up cautiously. Their eyes, both full of unanswered questions of different natures, meet and neither of them says a word. They stare at each other, waiting for someone to make the first move. Steve is fairly certain that Bucky will not attack him again, not after saving him when he fell from the helicarrier. He had woken up alone on the banks of the Potomac, and had been pleased to realize that he was alive, rather than drowned or murdered, and though he may lack common sense, he was no fool. There was no one else present at the time of the helicarrier's destruction who could have saved him, and as far as he had known, the Winter Soldier had separated from Hydra, and was missing in action. 

 

He and Sam had gone on a manhunt for about two months following Steve's recovery from the battle on top of the helicarriers, searching for any sign of the assassin across DC and the states, but after finding nothing but that Sam’s protests of weary feet and missing his own bed had finally worn him down, Steve had been forced to accept that maybe Bucky didn’t want to be found. If he wanted to find Bucky, he'd have to wait for Bucky to come to him. And now, here he was. But if the Soldier was not here to harm him, why was he here? Steve could remember another time when Bucky had once done exactly this--the old Bucky, and it had involved much more playful scares and fits of curse-strewn laughter, or him sweating and feverish as a worried Bucky looked on from the doorway, wanting to help more than he had, but knowing Steve had too much pride and too little money to accept it from anyone. 

 

The Captain shakes his head to clear his memory, and groans. His neck is sore from a cramped flight home on a small airplane in the early hours of the morning. Bucky shifts in position slightly, possibly to step forward and offer assistance, judging from the look of concern that flashes across his face for only a moment. Then it returns to its stoic and unmoving position, but in his eyes there is a confusion, as though he does not know why he instinctively wished to reach out to the super-soldier before him, and questions his body, which betrays him.  Still, this too raises the question as to why Bucky is here. Steve's heart pounds as he realizes this could mean Bucky remembers him; perhaps not as the friend he was before the war, but at the very least from the battle on the bridge, or the helicarrier. Hope rises in his clenched throat, hope that this is a sign that no matter what, Bucky Barnes remembers Steve Rogers enough to compel him to return here. 

 

The Soldier studies the man in front of him. His mission. His light hair is disheveled and tangled, his pale face aglow with a light sheen tinting his red cheeks. His lips are cracked and dry, and his eyes sunken into deep, darkened pits that speak of a long term lack of sleep, even for a brusque, genetically modified man. His muscles are weary and his body sags in its faded grey tee shirt, rumpled at the edges by worrying fingers. The Captain should be dead, but the Soldier can't do it. He appears exhausted both physically and emotionally, and yet, even so the hint of a smile quirking at the corners of his lips never falters as he regards the other man with quiet eyes. The Soldier doesn't understand. Twice now, he's tried to kill this man and both times something has gotten in the way. He doesn't know what. All he knows is that he's supposed to protect this man, the Captain. He speaks first. 

 

"I know you," he decides, voice low and cautious.

 

"Yes..." The Captain agrees, nodding, searching the Soldier's eyes, for something, anything. He keeps his voice low out of hesitation, afraid anything louder would scare the man away, would wake him up as though this were another dream.

 

The Soldier stares back, eyes unblinking and bright in the dark gloom of his bedroom. The lights are still off, and he supposes neither of them really need much light to see these days anyhow. Enhanced eyesight will do that to you. "Why do I know you?"

 

"I'm your friend," the Captain responds, voice shaky. He shifts position slightly, not knowing what else to do, and the other man is instantly set on edge, every fiber of his body alert. Steve tries to hold as still as possible after that, his eyes never leaving his friend’s.

 

The Soldier looks away, trying to understand. That can't be right. He's not allowed to have friends. The word "friend" is just a ghost of a memory in the back of his shattered mind. But he knows this man, he's sure of it. Maybe the Captain means it figuratively, like a metaphor. Maybe he used to be one of the Soldiers handlers. He has a vague feeling that at some point, this man cared for him. (Or was it the other way around? No, that can't be. The Soldier doesn’t care about people.) That seems right. A handler, he decides. "You're my mission. But I can't kill you. Why can't I kill you?" His voice is rising and he doesn't really seem to be aware of it. But he  _ can _ feel his pulse rising, his anger thickening with frustration. He begins to pace around the small room.

 

The Captain looks worried by his agitation but responds anyway, "Because we're friends, Bucky--"

 

There it is again. That name. Bucky. The Soldier thinks it should feel right, but it doesn't. He has no doubt that's who he once was. He'd gone to the Smithsonian, he'd seen the exhibit. He'd spent a lot more time in that museum than he should have, but none of the information stuck right in his mind. At best, he forgot certain details that he’d read. At worst, much more was missing, including his sense of self and what he knew (or didn’t) about the Captain. Most of the time it had been like looking at a stranger, reading every caption and inspecting every detail from the past meticulously as one would for a research paper. Sometimes, he would sense the spark of a small memory, and he would dwell there, trying so hard to recall the entire thing, hell, to recall  _ everything, anything, _ but it was in vain. The man in the pictures at the museum, that wasn't him. Not anymore. Looking at Bucky Barnes isn't like looking at a mirror. The flashbacks that it sometimes triggers don't feel like memories. It's more like watching a movie, like the ones he used to sneak into to meet Steve because he couldn't afford to pay, but Buck still wanted to have a good time with his pal. Just like the newsreels that would roll before the film, black and white pictures showing the glorified valiance of the War before he enlisted, before any of this damn mess had happened. It doesn't seem real, it doesn't seem right.

 

"That's not my name!" He snaps. His voice shakes and he feels sickened by himself. What would the Hydra agents say, what would they  _ do _ if they saw him this way... With--with  _ feeling _ .

 

The Captain looks stricken, his face falling like glass from a shattered mirror, contorting into something that looks like a smile painted onto a frightened child, confused and lost, but his voice remains calm, as if he's trying to comfort a wild animal, "Okay. Then what is?"

 

This freezes him right in his tracks. "I--I don't..." He says, voice barely above a whisper. It’s the first time Steve’s heard him sound really unsure of himself, as though without orders to tell him, he is only confused as to who he really is. 

 

He doesn't know how to answer. The red people who spoke the wrong language, they had called him  _ Soldat _ , or  _ Yasha. _ But those don’t feel right. His new handlers called him the Asset. But that doesn’t feel like a name either. That's just what he's called, like an object. He's property, a weapon. Weapons don't have a name. But he's not quite sure he's a weapon anymore either. He couldn't complete his mission. What's a gun that can't even fire? A gun that can't fire is without purpose, has failed its reason for being made... If it can't serve its purpose, do what it was crafted for, then it's no longer a gun. Funny how that works... Maybe it never was supposed to be one in the first place. Either way, he knows he's less than human... Still property, but ownership can change names and so can he. Maybe it's time he belonged to someone else. 

 

"Barnes..." He mouths cautiously, testing the name on his tongue. It feels sharp, but in a good way. Not sharp like a thin blade being wiped clean of blood and trace fingerprints after delivering a blow to the neck, slicing it neatly without any thought of morals or consequence or humanity, but  _ sharp _ in a new way, a good way... Sharp as in formal, fresh, and  _ changed _ . He likes it, and it will suffice for now because he's not ready to be Bucky, not yet. There's something coolly distant about being called by a surname. He laughs softly under his breath as a voice he thinks is the ghost of his old self floats up to the surface like smoke in the candlelight of a bombed-out bar, somewhere far away, to tug the rusted string of the instrument that is his mind, and tell him that once, he would have thought it "suave," which would have made Steve laugh as well and call him a pretentious idiot, but with...  _ affection _ . He is snapped back to attention by this same man, tasting his new title for himself. His mood has considerably brightened at whatever sort of "progress" this seems to be, and the smile, though thinly strung across his mouth, has returned, and there it is again, creeping up softly from under his light voice--the  _ affection _ . 

 

"Okay... Barnes... Do you know what my name is?" The Captain asks warily, daring to hope some spark of recognition will fill the Soldier’s eyes.

 

"Yes." The Soldier--well, he supposes he's Barnes, now--replies, " _ Name _ : Rogers, Steven Grant.  _ Alias _ : Captain America.  _ Status _ : Alive.  _ Priority _ : Level 6, High-Risk Threat.  _ Recommended Course of Action _ : Eliminate immediately--"

 

"Bu--Barnes. Stop. Please." Barnes immediately obeys, snapping his mouth shut, and feeling rather foolish for just backtracking on his "progress" by reverting to his former self, allowing the old mannerisms and training to surface. His eyes narrow as he studies Steve's face, the blue, blue eyes like the ocean he crossed so long ago in a boat, in a cramped brown--no,  _ gray  _ cell with some men just as terrified as he, not for themselves, but for the ones they'd left behind. His eyes are still calm and trusting, which is good... Because he suspects that even before the War, it was really only Steve who had and always would trust him. The Captain still looks shell-shocked by Barnes' mistake, eyes wide, pupils blown to fill his irises, leaving just a hint of cerulean that is still so  _ loud _ .

 

"Just... Just call me Steve, okay?" Steve tries, sounding a tag alarmed and deflated at the same time. His gaze is still unwavering, but his shoulders are back and his guard is down. He’s trying to stay calm, the Soldier realizes, for him.

 

It's not an order. It's more like a suggestion, and that baffles Barnes. It's still so hard to think of himself as anything more than the Asset, a weapon. You don't give a weapon suggestions. Weapons don't get a choice. He's starting to not be a weapon anymore, he's being unmade and becoming something new, thanks to Steve (and oh  _ God _ , does it feel good to be unmade and remade by this man). He's been unmade before. It's what turned him into the Winter Soldier. This is different. But Barnes sure as hell isn't there yet. Does he still have a choice? He nods anyway,

 

"Steve," He tries, testing the words again, gauging their familiarity. To his surprise, this one feels... Right. Like when he feels it pass his lips, he can remember it doing so in exactly the same way, countless times before. And for once, it's not just a conjured memory. He doesn't have to try to convince himself he had logically said that name at least once prior. Even if he can't remember the situations or circumstances of when or why he said this name ( _ Steve. Rogers. _ Even thinking it feels  _ right _ .), he remembers saying it. And this, at least, is a start. He can feel that he had always been able to find a clean slate, a new start in Steve.  _ Steve _ . And there it is again, he realizes, that--that...  _ Affection _ .

 

A silence has settled between them. They look at each other without speaking for a long time. Then Steve clears his throat, "Can I... Get you anything? Water, maybe?"

 

Barnes shakes his head, muscles tensing. This is unsettling too. He can't remember any of his other handlers offering him things. No one ever asked what  _ he  _ wants--wanted. It's a bit overwhelming. Again, there's silence. Neither one of them knows what to say, what to do.

 

"Maybe you want to get cleaned up? You can use the shower. I'll lend you some clothes." Steve tries again, coughing awkwardly into his curled fist. It appears that the Soldier is not the only one having a hard time handling the tense atmosphere or stress. 

 

Very much to his own surprise, he accepts, "Okay." The thought of having clothes that belong to Steve on him, so close to his skin, is too much to pass up, it might make him more comfortable.

 

And besides, the ghost in his mind is whispering that while  _ looking _ a bit roughed up ain't nothing bad every once in awhile, it's good to be clean, to feel scrubbed and new.Barnes is still confused by the vague flashes of a man who seems to have been him once, and when these little tidbits of his old personality resurface, the resulting feeling is new and unfamiliar (most  _ feelings _ are), and Barnes allows himself to give in, continuing on behind the Captain. 

 

Steve looks relieved that they're finally going somewhere. He opens up a door to another room, and Barnes follows him through the small entryway, and they both have to bow their heads to avoid a forehead injury. Barnes barks a hesitant laugh. 

 

"You’re gonna get us concussed with these low door frames, Stevie." He says dryly, and then his eyes widen in surprise at what he has just said. Where the  _ hell _ did that come from? That certainly wasn't  _ him _ ... Or--Was it?

 

Steve looks hesitantly pleased, and he sweeps his arm across the doorway, inviting him in. "Go right ahead," Steve says, "Towels are in that cabinet. I'll leave some clothes right outside the door." Steve shuffles out of the way.

 

The Soldier enters the bathroom, and Steve gently closes the door behind him. It's a small room, and with a resigned sigh he comes to the conclusion that he will inevitably bash his hip into something at least once in the cramped space. The toilet is directly adjacent to the sink, which has a small medicine cabinet mirror hanging above it. The towel rack brushes against his back as he turns to lean against the counter, cold metal seeping through his thin tee shirt and then clanging against that goddamn arm. He turns on the shower, and before he steps in, he stares at himself in the mirror. His reflection startles him a little. There weren't very many mirrors at the Hydra bases he was kept in, and after so many memory wipes, he's even begun to forget what he looks like a bit. His hair is dirty and ratted. No wonder Steve suggested a shower… And maybe a trim wouldn’t go amiss either. It's longer than he thought it was. Hollow blue eyes glare back at him from the mirror. They are not blue like the ocean, or the Brooklyn sky, or a patriotic uniform, or the center of a shield that has saved his skin a couple of times, or the birds that used to sing above his head at base, or like his mama's favorite dress... Or anything. They are just blue eyes, nothing special. In fact, the empty way they stare back at him, it's almost like they're closer to cold grey, he realizes, like the standard grade accessory of a weapon. 

 

In his mind, he superimposes the picture of Bucky Barnes from the museum over his own reflection. The bone structure of the face is identical, but there's an emptiness here that isn’t present in the museum pictures. Bucky Barnes is so alive, but the Soldier, he is dead. He has been, ever since he fell off that train. Ever since he lost Steve. 

 

With a start, he takes a step back, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. Sometimes that happens. He remembers things without even realising it, and it hurts. It happens when he’s been out of cryo for too long, when he’s gone too long without a wipe, without the drugs they used to keep him obedient and focused. Now that Hydra’s out of commission, he wonders what will happen to his memory. Right now, he remembers falling off a train in the cold. He’s had this memory before, many times. Steve was there, he thinks. He wonders why Steve didn't save him, but then he realises that's silly. He's a weapon, expendable. He isn't worth saving. He knows now why his eyes are lifeless; because they once were so lit up by the happiness from the life he once had, but those memories of that time are not his, they belong to a dead man, and Steve is not his to call his own. Not anymore, at least. 

 

By now, the water's been running for a long while. Barnes peels off his clothes and steps in. When he's done, he grabs a towel and opens the door. True to his word, Steve has left fresh clothes right outside. The Soldier grabs them and retreats back into the bathroom to change. For a moment, he thinks about the fact that these clothes are Steve's. He smiles to himself, unfolding the garments. The shirt is blue, blue with the promise of memories to come. And, it's the Captain's... It makes him feel something, a  _ good  _ something, that fact.

 

When he's changed, he goes to find Steve. He feels so lost without a mission, a directive. His last standing orders were to incapacitate Captain America and the Black Widow, and protect the helicarriers. But the helicarriers have been brought down, the Soldier knows he won't hurt Steve, and the Widow is long gone. It's hard to think on your own when somebody else has been thinking for you for over 70 years.

 

Steve is lying on a couch in the front room of the apartment, which seems to be a small lounge area. He's folded up, knees bent and feet tucked under, almost gracefully, as he reads a book. Barnes notices the title and it bothers him:  _ Seeing Through the Seventies _ .

 

The Captain has missed much of the world, just like the Soldier has. He knows this because he read it at the museum. There was a plane crash in the Arctic. At first glance, one might think the two are very different, but really, they're not. He had never met another who could fight like him, not until the Captain.  _ It's because we're the same, _ he thinks.  _ He’s like me.  _ More than human. Or less, he's not sure which. Both made into weapons before falling and then sleeping in ice for too long. Maybe the Captain was broken and remade like the Soldier was, in order to fight alongside him. To lead him.  _ Were you meant for me? We're the same. Born of the same star...  _ The thoughts aren't his, not really. They're the remnants of the thoughts someone had in a different life, long ago, and yet, they still fit.

 

_ He hears a distant peal of laughter in his mind, the laughter of a child, and then he's being swept up in another memory. _

 

_ "My mama taught me a poem," he's saying, but his voice is different. Younger, happier. He can't be more than 10. _

 

_ The tiny boy next to him swings his feet over water. They're on a dock, it seems. "Hmm?" The blond asks. _

 

_ "A poem," he repeats. "Wanna hear it?" _

 

_ "Okay," The boy says. _

 

_ He takes a breath and clears his throat. _

 

"I'm nobody! Who are you?   
Are you nobody, too?   
Then there's a pair of us — don't tell!   
They'd banish us, you know.   
  
How dreary to be somebody!   
How public, like a frog   
To tell your name the livelong day   
To an admiring bog!"

 

_ The boy, Steve, he realizes, smiles up at him mischievously. "Wow, Buck," he grins, "You really are a regular poetry reciter!" He's teasing, but Bucky doesn't mind. He just pulls his arm around Steve tighter and laughs with him. _

 

As quickly as the memory appeared, it vanishes. The Soldier steps into the room as Steve looks up from his book.

 

"Hey," the other says, noticing something odd in the look on his face, "Feeling alright?"

 

Barnes nods, then opens his mouth slowly to speak. "You're like me. You fight like me." He observes, staring down as though appraising the man, but not meeting his eyes.  

 

Steve gives him a tiny smile, setting the book aside and looking apprehensive before he answers, "That's because you taught me how to fight."

 

That seems right. He can remember teaching small children to fight. Maybe he was a protégé, of some sort that has graduated to become a handler. There’s a pang in his abdomen, and Barnes can feel his stomach growling. He feels uncomfortable asking for things, but he's starting to realize that he's starving. He can’t remember the last time he was fed. "I... Food?"

 

Steve looks surprised for a moment, but he seems happy about it. "Yeah! What do you want? I've got some leftover pizza in the fridge." He offers, running a hand through his hair quickly, voice sounding pleased. 

 

“What about the tube?” Bucky asks. He has never been fed regular food. At least, from what he can recall, he hasn’t. It’s always come in the form of a beige mash through a tube, whenever he was taken out of cryo.

 

With a small jerk, Steve freezes. Swallowing thickly as though having to restrain himself from doing something he’ll regret, it takes him a moment to respond. He sounds morose, voice quiet. “I don’t… Barnes… You don’t have to do that anymore. You can eat however you choose. Is the pizza okay?”

 

"I don’t care." Barnes replies quickly, tone indifferent. Steve looks a little disappointed at that, but he jumps to his feet and bounds over to the aforementioned fridge. Even though Barnes has been sheltered and frozen by Hydra for so long, he's spent enough time in the outside world during his missions to recognize a refrigerator. He's practically inhabited one for most of his extended life. But when Steve removes the pizza and places it in a small rectangular box that begins to make a whirring noise as Steve closes it, Barnes is at a loss. He thinks he’s seen them before on more recent missions, but never in use.

 

"What... What is that?" He asks suddenly, staring at the whirring box in a sort of curious wonder.

 

"Oh, this thing? Cool, right?" Steve stares at it in somewhat infatuated reverence , small smile gracing his lips as he remembers Bucky’s love of science, "It's a microwave. It uses radiation to warm up food, real quick." As if on cue, the box starts beeping and Steve opens it, removing the pizza. Sure enough, it's steaming and the cheese looks like it has melted a little more.

 

Barnes is amazed. As Steve hands him a couple slices of the pizza and he begins to wolf them down, he looks fixedly at the so-called microwave. It's almost like magic. There's so much he's missed. When he's finished eating, Steve starts to talk again.

 

"So, I'm assuming you want to get some sleep, huh? You can have my bed, I'll take the couch." He says, breaking the silence as Barnes swallows the bite in his mouth. Barnes looks at him, not quite sure how to express whatever he’s feeling, overwhelmed and chest tightening, but also… Content, and he thinks that this must be gratitude.

 

"Okay," he replies, failing to come up with anything better to express himself. Again, he follows Steve through the apartment. They end up back in the bedroom where Steve had originally found Barnes, the sheets and walls still the same. Barnes doesn’t know why he half expected something different, special, now that Steve has offered it to him.

 

"Okay," Steve gives him a gentle smile, watching his friend’s eyes scan the room, as though searching for something in the dim light, "You're welcome to sleep right here." Barnes crawls into the bed, curling up like a very large cat.

 

Now looking up at Steve, for the second time that night, Barnes observes the presence of dark circles under the Captain’s weary eyes. “You haven’t been sleeping either.” He notes, and that doesn’t sit right with him. No, he thinks, Steve should be taking care of himself.

 

“I…” Steve begins to protest, Barnes can note the formation of a lie, but then he bites his lip with a resigned sigh, and shakes his head a little, “No, I’ve just been having a little trouble. A lot on my mind.” There’s a pause. "If you need anything, I'm right down the hall. Just give me a shout." Steve continues as he starts to exit the room. Barnes wants to reach out, plead with him to stay, but before he knows it, Steve is already gone. The metal arm, which has lifted a few inches off the bed in an undecided attempt to grasp at Steve, falls limply onto the bed. He doesn’t want to be alone anymore. But Barnes supposes this will have to do. Infinitely better than what he's used to, anyway. He didn’t know such soft luxuries existed. He closes his eyes and waits for sleep to take hold.

 

* * *

 

It feels like he's been asleep for barely an hour when a nightmare wakes him, and suddenly, he's sitting up, scrabbling at the sheets, and screaming so hard he thinks he might be ripping up his throat. He always has nightmares when he sleeps outside of his cryo-chamber, but the longer he's out for, the worse they get. It's been a while, and this one... It’s pretty bad, as far as bad goes. He can feel tears running down his face, and the part of his mind that's still sensible wonders, _What would Hydra think of you now? The Winter Soldier in tears._ It laughs bitterly. Barnes kicks and screams, shaking like a frightened child. If his handlers ever saw him like this, they'd make him shut up quick, often through force, and if that didn't put an end to it, they'd just take him and wipe him right away.

 

There's a sound of frantic shuffling outside the room, and Steve appears, eyes wide and hair wild as though he’d been halfway to sleeping when Barnes woke him up. He sits by the trembling former assassin, weighing his options.

 

"Hey, hey, Barnes, you're okay," He attempts, voice soft. He hands are in fists at his sides, knuckles straining in reservation. Barnes only continues to make panicked noises, eyes darting around but unseeing. Hesitantly, Steve wraps an arm around the man who once was his best friend. To his surprise, the shell that was Bucky Barnes crumples into his arms, sobbing. This is the first true physical contact they've had since the helicarriers went down, and to Steve's relief, this time, they are not throwing punches (though Bucky sobbing in his arms isn't exactly what he had in mind either).

 

"Shh," Steve soothes, immediately relaxing against the crying man, no longer worried to comfort him if that is what he needs, "You're okay. You're safe here. I've got you. It's me, it's Steve. You remember me, right?"

 

Slowly, the Soldier's form ceases to shake. Now he's just breathing heavily, silent tears soaking into Steve's shirt. "I'm sorry." He mumbles, voice slurred as his cheek presses against Steve’s chest, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up."

 

"It's okay, that's what I'm here for." Steve responds assuredly, fingers trailing down Barnes shoulder once in a parting gesture as he gets up to leave, "'Night."

 

This time, Barnes is able to steel his nerves before the man exits. "No," he mutters, looking up at Steve with dejected eyes, looking regretful as soon as the word leaves his mouth, but still determined enough to press on, "Please don't leave. I can’t… Not alone…”

 

"Okay." Steve agrees immediately, without another thought. He looks a little surprised, but mostly, just concerned for Bucky. With only a little hesitation, he climbs right in with Barnes and is careful not to lie on top of him.

 

As Steve settles in, Barnes becomes aware of the familiarity of the distant warmth, the pressure on the mattress. Memories claw their way up to the surface of his mind. He sees Steve huddled against him in the darkness of a tent, limbs askew. He sees a smaller Steve shivering in a cot, pale and wheezing, as Bucky--because that man was Bucky, even if  _ he _ isn't anymore--lies wrapped around him. 

 

"This... This happened before. Didn't it? It happened a lot." He asks, voice breaking through the silence.

 

"Yeah. Yeah, it did." Steve replies, “Used to get cold in Brooklyn and we didn’t had a half-decent heater.” And his voice sounds happier than Barnes has heard it sound the entire time he's been here. The blond rolls over, turning away from Barnes. The Soldier doesn't know it, but at that moment, Steve thinks this might be the first time he’s actually felt like he could fall asleep, since he woke up from the ice, with the other man’s warmth settled against his back beneath the thick blanket cocooned around them. 

 

Following the instinct of the trace of a memory, Barnes scoots closer to Steve's body and laces his arms around him. He cranes his head back and gives Barnes a quizzical look.  _ Now _ , Steve looks surprised. But he doesn't say anything. He just intertwines his hand with Barnes's flesh one, and then they're asleep.

 

* * *

 

When he wakes up, the Soldier is disoriented by the fact that he doesn’t immediately recognize his surroundings. But hell, he’s too damn comfortable to panic. He stays still for a moment, recalling where he is without opening his eyes. He realizes that he’s woken up before Steve has, and he's afraid to open his eyes at all, because he fears that once he does, the comforting presence beside him will vanish, and this will all just have been some kind of delusion conjured up by his damaged psyche. But he opens his eyes anyway because he has to at some point, and he takes everything in.

 

Sometime during the night, Steve had apparently turned towards him, so now Barnes can see his face. Angelic, like paintings hanging in an Irish Catholic church in Brooklyn that felt ancient even in 1930. There's no other way to describe it. Steve's golden hair is plastered across his forehead like a halo, mouth slightly open, eyes gently shut with long eyelashes fringing them. Barnes jumps a little when the eyelashes begin to flutter and the eyes open, but he's relieved that he isn't too alarmed.

 

"Hey," Steve mumbles, a small smile gracing his lips. Barnes doesn't say anything. The importance of greetings and pleasantries have been lost to him after 70 years as a living machine. "Did you sleep well?"

 

Barnes nods with a "Yes," and he's surprised to note that he actually did. He'd woken up several times from nightmares, but he hadn't cried out anymore and he'd fallen back asleep fairly easily each time. Just having Steve near him keeps him calm, and he's grateful for that.

 

Steve considers going out for breakfast because he doesn't have much in his apartment, but he quickly realizes that it might not be wise to take Barnes out of the house. Instead, they have toaster waffles (a lot of waffles) and orange juice in Steve’s kitchen. They're mostly silent, apart from Steve trying to make polite conversation. But Barnes isn't very responsive. He's too busy reflecting on his current loyalties.

 

The first few weeks after the helicarriers, he'd tried desperately to find any remaining HYDRA agents who were still in operation that could help him. He needed so badly to be wiped, to have his memory repressed, to be shot up with drugs to numb him, for the painful flow of information to just stop. A minute of unendurable torture to end an eternity of pain that was even harder to bear. He wanted to forget again, like he had all the times before. He wanted someone to shut the doors to his cryo-chamber and feel the temperature dropping, slipping like his consciousness, down into icy oblivion. Besides, HYDRA needed him. They'd given him a purpose. Because of them, he'd been  _ a gift to humanity. _ He'd  _ shaped the century _ . Or so Alexander  _ (Call me Sasha, if you’d like; that would be my name in that awful language you’re familiar with.) _ Pierce had told him. He was important, he had a purpose. A protector was all he'd ever really been. At least, he thought so. This much he'd remembered from before his last wipe. He had been so close to liberating the world.

 

But it seemed that every agent within 100 miles of DC had gone underground and the Soldier was too weak to travel any further. On top of that, he learned that Sasha was dead. That news resulted in a lot of conflicting emotions for him.

 

When he finally accepted that HYDRA was gone, at least for now, he had no choice but to allow the memories back in. He traveled around, hiding away in long-abandoned HYDRA safe houses, looking for anything and everything that might help him begin to piece his mind back together. The more days that passed, the more he'd started to remember. But it wasn't enough, it wasn't right. The memories weren't clear. He was just  _ aware _ of them, and it was painful, knowing just how much of himself was missing. It was like being caught in a hurricane while at sea. So he held on to the only thing that was clear, his island of salvation: a face that he'd last seen beaten and bloody at his own hand. The Captain. Steve. And now here he is. It’s true that Sasha had given him purpose, but Sasha had also hurt him. Steve has never laid a hand on the Soldier, in all of his admittedly faulty memories.

 

And with Steve, those memories seem like they make more sense. Still not totally clear, not all there, and sometimes he sees the brief flash of a life long since over that leaves him disoriented. But at least they're ordered. He's only been here for a night, but already, he feels like he's getting somewhere.

 

After breakfast, Steve recounts memories of Bucky and their life before for him. He smiles when he does his. The Soldier thinks Bucky liked it when Steve smiles. So he tries to like it too. Sometimes, Steve asks Barnes if he remembers. The first time, the Soldier is honest. 

 

"No." He answers, without hesitation. Steve nods, the smile fading from his face. Barnes' face mirrors Steve's with a frown. He thinks Bucky--the man he was before--didn't like seeing Steve frown. So Barnes tries not to like it either. For the rest of the day, he always answers yes and smiles when Steve asks if he remembers. Continuing on with this pretense, the Captain is satisfied. But then, Barnes starts to think Steve's catching on. He seems aware that the Soldier has been lying, and his face is stoic, and still when he says, "Buc-Barnes, I want you to be real honest with me, okay? Do you really remember those things that I’ve been telling you about? Tell me the truth."

 

There. 'Tell the truth.' An order. The Soldier knows what to do when given an order. Obey. 

 

"No." He says. Steve's face falls, and briefly barnes wonders if he made the wrong decision. Maybe it would've been better to just keep lying. Anything to make this man smile. He tries to rectify his mistake by continuing, "I don't remember, not the way you want me to. But--usually, I remember feelings... And... I see things... Just never all of it and I can't remember why..."

 

Steve looks at him, taking in his features, "Okay. Good. That's something. That's progress." He notes, nodding his head slightly in Barnes’ direction. He’s not exactly smiling, but he isn’t frowning anymore, and the Soldier feels relieved Steve isn’t upset with him.

 

This is what goes on for the next few days. Steve informs him of who Bucky Barnes was, and he absorbs the information, analyzing it and fitting it into the wiring of his brain. He adopts Bucky's mannerisms and tries to act more and more like him. He imitates the black and white clips he saw in the Smithsonian, or allows the ghost in his mind tell him what it thinks when it’s there. When the ghost speaks, he listens. He's always proud when this happens. He feels like he's getting closer to being Bucky. When he can’t think of what his former self would do, he improvises. Maybe, he thinks, if he fakes it for long enough, he might even be able to trick himself. Maybe he should start thinking of himself as _Bucky_ now, rather than Barnes. But he just can't shake the feeling that he's still getting it all wrong.

 

Sometimes, he remembers remembering. He just can't remember what he remembered. It makes him angry, because he's trying so hard, and he feels like he's on the verge of a breakthrough, and then there's only blankness in his mind.

 

On the fifth day, he's trying to hold steadfastly to a memory that threatens to escape while Steve leaves the apartment for the first time since he's shown up ( _ Just need to grab some groceries, I'll be back before you know it. You'll be okay for an hour, right?).  _ Bucky (he's Bucky now, he  _ is _ , he has to be) gets so upset he throws a glass across the room. The shattered glass is like slivers of ice, cold like the burning fury slicing at his veins and driving him insane. Cold like cryo. When Steve comes home, he doesn't immediately lunge at him, yelling angrily. This confuses the former assassin. He's used to his handlers reprimanding him when he breaks thing. And when his handlers are really mad, they hurt him, or worse, wipe him. For that very reason, he's hiding when Steve steps through the door. He is crouched beneath the cabinets in the hall, amongst soft towels that smell like crisp detergent and Steve’s lingering scent. 

 

Steve still isn't angry. "Bucky?" He calls nervously, taking in the shards of glass on the floor. "Are you okay?"

 

Bucky doesn't know whether or not he should come out of his hiding place or reply or just do nothing. He's not alright, not at all. But he's not used to anyone caring about his wellbeing. It doesn't matter how a gun feels. All that matters is whether or not it can kill. Steve is a very unorthodox handler.

 

"No..." He responds thickly, and he hates that his voice betrays how upset he is.

 

"Bucky!" Steve breathes, relief evident in his voice. "Thank God, I thought you'd left."

 

"No," he says again, emerging from his hiding place. The cupboard doors creak, and he cringes at the noise, betraying his silly place of seclusion. Bucky is embarrassed, and the ghost in his mind gently tells him hiding was stupid... Because Steve is good and gentle unless he's forced to be otherwise. 

 

"I... I broke your glass. Why aren't you mad?" he mumbles in a short whisper, voice rough and low as he peeks out from behind the hallway entrance, dark hair hanging in his face like a mussed curtain in stark contrast to the plain, light walls of Steve’s home. He sounds like a frightened child, which pains Steve.

 

"It's just a glass, Buck. It's not a big deal." Steve replies, the shopping bag set down at his feet and his hands open, towards Bucky, "I'm just glad you're safe. What happened?"

 

"I almost remembered... But I couldn't... And I just..." He takes a breath, shaking not with fury, but with shame. All that progress and he lost control again. Pathetic. He can’t look Steve in the eyes, its all just too much. He’s failed, and he hates himself for being this weak.

 

"Steve, I want to get better. I want to remember and you want me to too and I  _ can't _ . I'm sorry. I can't be Bucky again. Not anymore. I'm broken."  _ And if I can't be him, you won't want me.  _ When a weapon's broken, it gets thrown away, he knows that better than anyone, resolving himself to lose this man with the kind, blue eyes yet again.

 

The look on Steve's face is so sad it almost breaks Bucky's heart. "No, Buck." He says desperately, "You're not broken. You're just different. And that's fine, okay? Look at me, I’ve changed too. Do I still look like the scrawny kid, always wheezing and coughing, who couldn’t ever get a girl to dance with him? Who got beat up all the time for being a stubborn punk too stupid to walk away from a fight?”

 

Bucky laughs, softly, the fuzzy image cutting through his thoughts of self-loathing. He can remember that, at least. “No. Guess not.” He admits, finally. His tone is begrudging, because he’s clever enough to see where Steve is going with this, and he knows what he’ll be forced to see about himself in a moment, but even so it's still there in his voice... That fondness.  

 

“Everyone changes, Bucky. It’s been  _ 70 years _ . I’m different, but I’m still  _ me _ . It doesn't matter if you remember everything or not. Whatever they did to you, you still have the same heart. And I'm here for you. Till the end of the line, remember?" Steve says, his voice honest and almost raw, yet Bucky knows its not him causing that… It’s just Steve reacting to the situation again. He knows when he struggles like this it frustrates the Captain, though he isn’t quite sure why. 

 

Bucky nods. "I'm sorry." He says again, not knowing how else to respond, his voice blunt and quiet.

 

"There's nothing to be sorry for." Steve tells him automatically, pulling him in for a hug. Bucky falls into his arms so quickly he worries its telling, but Steve only seems focused on making him feel better, on getting him to believe that he is not a monster.

 

He wants to cry into Steve’s chest until the earth stops spinning, because he feels so desperately grateful to him, but also so completely undeserving of his help. Bucky can’t be the man Steve pretends he doesn’t want back, and though Bucky just wants to be held in the Captain’s arms and cry, it isn’t  _ him _ the Captain wants to hold, not really. That man died in the ice and rocks of the Swiss Alps. He feels sick, and the world sways around him. He won’t ever get there, it seems, not entirely and he’s upset about it. He has just regained the will, the right, to be able to want something and what he wants he cannot have. Just like Steve, it seems. Steve, who is so kind and patient, and deserves to have the man he desires back in his life. Bucky has done nothing good to deserve reclaiming the life that once belonged to his former self outside of the confines of his own subconsciousness, and yet that makes him want it even more, so that he  _ can  _ do good things, as that good man again. He doesn't deserve this.

 

* * *

 

Steve stares at Bucky from his chair as he watches him pace around their apartment, no doubt looking for weak spots in the perimeter, or sweeping for bugs, or something like that. He’d already done this several times since he first appeared in Steve’s apartment, but it doesn’t seem to matter, because he’s still done it everyday since. Steve doesn’t blame him though, and he isn’t confused by it. He gets it, he does. In fact, he’s not entirely convinced that he wouldn’t be doing the exact same thing if Bucky weren’t doing it for him, especially in the face of the whole SHIELD/HYDRA debacle. So no, that isn’t why he’s staring.

 

It’s just that something about Bucky has changed since they fought. It takes him a good ten minutes of staring until he deciphers what exactly it is. And then he realizes, Bucky has lost that purposeful stride he had on the roof, on the bridge, and on the helicarriers. He doesn’t  _ stalk _ anymore, like a predator closing in on its prey.

 

The way Bucky now walks reminds Steve of a ghost. He seems to drift, never lingering in one place for too long. He stares through Steve sometimes, like he's somewhere else. Like he's seeing his surroundings but they overlap with memories of another time, like placing a translucent slide with printed images over a photograph. It's incredibly disconcerting, because Steve himself knows that feeling. He wishes he could get Bucky to just sit down and relax, just look at him for more than a couple seconds, or at least  _ see _ him when he looks at him instead of looking right through him. He seems so lost all the time, and it physically pains Steve to watch. The man who used to be Bucky Barnes is broken, empty, barely even a shell of what he used to be. It's miserable.

 

The thing about the old Bucky Barnes, is that he was always so sure of his place in the universe. Bucky Barnes knew exactly who he was, exactly what he was going to do a week before he even did it. His ability to walk into any situation and completely  _ own  _ it had always been something Steve admired about him. He thinks that's what bothers him so much about this new Bucky. Obviously, he doesn't know who he is. Seven decades of memory wipes and brainwashing will do that to a guy, Steve understands that. But Bucky's just so purposeless, so blank… 

 

And it’s not just his walk. Steve has begun to be able to tell when he thinks he’s remembered something, because his eyes start to shine, and then abruptly lose their luster, clouded over with confusion and disbelief, trying to distinguish reality from imagination or past from present. A lot of the time, he is silent, relying on Steve to carry on all conversations. When he does speak, he can barely string more than a few words together in a sentence. That or he asks questions, so many questions. And the littlest things set him off. A phone rings, and Bucky jumps, forgetting he doesn't always have to be on red-alert. Bucky sees something on TV that triggers a repressed memory and he's suddenly frozen in place, eyes darting about wildly as they struggle to witness and absorb the new memory, good or bad, desired or not. 

 

Steve isn't equipped to deal with this, not really... This isn't anything like his trips to visit Peggy, who gently forgets and then will suddenly recall he's there, and continue rattling on as he hides how much it is breaking him. Steve doesn't know who that makes stronger, Bucky or her.  But God knows he'll keep trying to help his friend, no matter what it takes, because when he looks into Bucky's eyes, it's like they're fogged over with the bated breath of his former friend waiting until he will be released from the prison of this awakening mind. But behind the cloud of doubt that settles over Bucky’s sullen gaze, there is light, colorful and warm, suppressed but there all the same. So vibrant, and sudden and...  _ Blue _ .

 

* * *

 

Steve finally accepts that he has no idea what he’s doing and needs help about a week after Bucky first appears in his apartment. He decides to shoot Sam a text. 

 

**Steve Rogers:** _ Hey, how are you? Sorry I haven’t gone running in a while. Also, Bucky’s in my apartment. _

 

**Sam Wilson:** _ What the hell?! _

Ten minutes later, there is a furious pounding noise at the door, and Steve opens the door to reveal an even more furious looking Sam. 

 

_ “What the hell?!”  _ he hisses, eyes wide. He eyes Bucky, who is currently sitting on Steve’s couch with his legs crossed and blankly watching a program about deep sea creatures on Animal Planet. Their eyes both swivel over to look at him, one pair wide with shock and fear and the other slightly disbelieving with hesitant affection.

 

“How long has he been here?” he asks in a whisper, following Steve into the kitchen where they can talk more discreetly.

Steve shrugs casually, trying to stay cool about the whole thing. If Sam tells anyone, he could lose Bucky. He has to make this seem like it isn’t a big deal, even though having the man back in his life is the biggest deal of all. “A week, maybe? It feels longer.”

“A week.” Sam repeats in disbelief, shaking his head, “Christ, Steve. What were you thinking? We spent months,  _ months--! _ He could’ve killed you!”

Steve looks away. Obviously, he hasn’t been thinking. He never has when it comes to Bucky. That isn't going to change. But Sam must be crazy if he believes Steve would ever let his best friend go, especially when he needs him most. Steve trusts Bucky just because he always has and he always will, and that is enough for him. 

 

“He isn’t going to hurt me.” he says assuredly. Sam looks at him incredulously. “Look, Sam… He wants to get  _ better _ . He  _ wants  _ help… And I don’t know how to give it to him. Look at him. He came to me. He’s trying so hard, and I just…  _ I _ can't give him the help he needs. I don’t know what to do. You have experience with stuff like this, right? It’s your job. Please…?” He leaves off, and looks back towards Bucky.

Sam sighs gently, “Dammit, Steve. This isn’t in my job description.” Steve can almost feel his heart breaking, and he gives Sam a miserable look, hoping it conveys all his emotions. “... But I’ll see what I can do, okay?”

 

Steve surges forward and smothers him in a bone-crushing hug. Literally bone crushing. 

 

“Steve.” Sam grunts, “Put me the hell down, or so help me God, I’ll turn around and leave right now.”

Steve notices that Sam’s feet are a good three inches off the ground. He sets him down. “Sorry. Sorry, I just… Thank you. Thank you so much. I don’t know how to repay you.”

“You don’t need to, Steve. Just know that I’m not promising anything, okay? Not a recovery, no suddenly remembering everything that happened back in the day, alright? Maybe, in some kind of best case scenario, he’ll remember some stuff, but that's a long shot and it's all very circumstantial. We both read the file Natasha gave you. You know what they did to him. And even if he does remember everything--and I'm  _ not _ saying he will--he'll never be the man he was again.” Sam reminds him as he meets his eye seriously, voice stern in a truthful way. He wants Steve to know what to expect, and doesn’t want to get his hopes up or make any promises he cannot keep.

“That’s okay. That’s okay. Just help him. Please.” Steve responds quickly, voice jumping in eagerness, a slice of hope shining through his neutral tone. 

 

Sam can tell that Bucky Barnes he knew or not, this man will always be Steve’s best friend to him, and that he truly cares about the Soldier’s wellbeing. So, Sam spends the day there, attempting to talk to Bucky, who doesn't really want to talk unless Steve’s the one who speaks first. So, Sam reorients and directs everything towards Steve, even though it's all really for Bucky's benefit. Although he's silent to begin with, Bucky eventually comes around a little and makes the odd comment here and there. Mostly, they talk about what's different. Sam says he thinks working backwards might be easier for Bucky, since this is the world he remembers, even if his view of it is stilted and choppy. They're on the topic of civil rights and tolerance (specifically gay marriage) and Bucky move stealthily away from where he was curled up and leaning on Steve. Sam quickly backtracks and suggests they eat dinner.

 

They’re eating soup at the table in silence when Bucky says it. He doesn't really mean to (well, not completely). It's just that it's become a habit for him to tell Steve whenever he remembers things. “I fucked men too.” he says quietly.

 

Steve sputters and spits his soup on the table in front of him, coughing as hard as he used to before the serum, face red and gasping for air before proceeding to make a strangled noise.

 

“Jesus, Barnes.” Wilson mutters.

 

Bucky ignores them. “I remember, down by the docks… And then at the St. George hotel... There were a lot of men there… Who were... You know.” He’s a little flustered but he smiles at them triumphantly, pleased to have remembered something. He thinks it was important. In his mind's eye, the old Bucky tips his uniform cap to him and grins just as wide. 

 

Steve gawks at him, “But I thought--You--All those women--I…  _ What?” _

 

Bucky’s face changes to a pink tinge, but only for a moment and then it is gone as quickly as it came. “You know what it was like… People like me... They didn't think too much of us back then… It’s not like I did it all the time anyways… I didn’t even start with guys till I was 21, I think… I mean, I thought about before, but… Besides, you were my best friend, I couldn’t tell you... It would have made living together awkward… And I didn’t wanna disgust you… Didn’t want you to leave.”  He pauses and then goes on, “And then I got my orders anyways and--” He cuts off as the look on Steve’s face caused him to snort back a laugh. “You know, in London… There was this one G.I. I met. A captain, but not like you, Steve, a real captain. He was a real handsome fella… And we, uh, you know... Doubt he’s still around… John? Jim? Jack? Can’t… Remember…he had friends too, a man, Smith? And a real pretty blonde dame named for some flower, but they seemed pretty smitten on each other so I didn’t even ask past the Captain.” He tries to struggle on, but the pause makes him notice that Steve has grown more and more uncomfortable. It gives him a strange feeling of satisfaction, so he continues. “Yeah,” Bucky smiles. “And before that, another guy, Conor Macnamara. Met him by the docks. He was a dockhand too, used to work for a private shipping company there, I think… Green eyes, real pretty-like… And the reddest hair, like fire. The boys at the docks used to joke that we should stick him up on top of the lighthouse because you could see his hair for miles, even in the fog.” He bit back a chuckle at the fond memory. “He was covered in freckles. Told me they were his good luck charms. He was real handsome, but he had the heaviest Irish accent, worse than my uncle’s, Stevie. Bet he’s long gone by now, too.”

 

Steve blinks. He knew Conor Macnamara. He remembers meeting him once when he came home from his job painting signs on a Thursday, deciding to skip his weekly art class just this once, because he'd just earned a raise and he wanted to celebrate with Bucky. So he'd gone home to their shared apartment, and there in the kitchen was Bucky, and on his lap was a man with hair redder than the blush that had crept up Steve's cheeks. They were singing sea shanties at the top of their lungs, and there were three empty bottles and one half-full of what Steve suspected to be moonshine on the table in front of them. He hadn't thought anything of it then, mostly because they both seemed to be drunk off their asses, and also because there was no way  _ Bucky _ might be  _ that _ way. But apparently Steve was mistaken.

 

He shakes off the memory, and looks up from his soup. Bucky is staring back at him, a look in his eyes that suggests that he feels this is a moment of achievement. Steve supposes it is, because he  _ has _ remembered something. And it's a kinda big something. "Well, it's good that you're remembering." He says, offering him a smile.

 

When Steve doesn’t say anything more, Bucky gets up and leaves the table. He half expects Steve to follow him down the hallway, but it doesn’t happen. Vaguely, he’s aware of Steve engaging in trivial conversation with Wilson. He moves further away, trying to distance himself, closing the door to Steve’s room and sitting down on the corner of the bed. Verbalizing what he remembers often brings forth several more hazy memories. Memories from before the Winter Soldier existed, from before the war even. He closes his eyes, and suddenly it’s 1936 and he’s the old Bucky Barnes again, at 19 years of age, and he’s staring at Steve’s slight frame, and Steve’s staring back with those big blue eyes.

 

“What?” The other asks, seeming confused by the unbroken eye contact.

 

“Nothing,” Bucky shrugs, playing nonchalant. Steve shrugs back and returns to whatever he was doing before. Drawing something in a little sketchbook, it seems like. Bucky looks away, trying to bury the feeling of desire that bubbles up inside him. It’s not right, he knows it isn’t, but he can’t help it. He was never good at wanting things he couldn't have. He gives a resigned sigh, and then everything melts away.

 

It’s 1941, a new decade, and everything’s completely different and exactly the same. Pearl Harbor's been bombed by the Japanese. The president has announced that America is now at war. They’re adults and they live together now, and Bucky’s still hopelessly, completely obsessed with Steve Rogers. He’s given up trying to completely repress his “sinful desires,” but he still refuses to make a move on Steve. Bucky would never drag him down into this. He owes him at least that much. Steve's a good man. Instead, he chases after all the women (and men, in dark alleyways and not-really-hidden bars and not-so-secret hotels for guys like him) he can get his hands on to distract himself. It suffices. He knows it’s the best he’ll get, and really, anyone else would be more than happy with it. But Bucky’s flawed, and he hates himself for it. He hates that he sees Steve’s face whenever he’s alone with someone. He hates that he hears Steve’s voice whenever someone whispers illicit promises or sweet nothings in his ear. He hates that he needs the one thing he can’t ever, ever have: his best friend, little Stevie Rogers.

 

With a sudden jolt, he’s back in the present, still sitting on Steve’s bed. So… He was in love with Steve. That’s not entirely new or shocking. He suspects it might even still be true, if he could figure out a way to distinguish between his emotions. Or if he knew what they were in the first place. He sighs a little and gets up and moves slowly back towards the kitchen.

 

He can no longer hear the sounds of easy-going conversation. Instead, he hears Steve and Wilson muttering back and forth. Clearly, he is not meant to hear whatever they’re saying. He stops, just shy of the entrance to the kitchen. He’s hidden in the shadows, but he’s still close enough to hear what’s being said.

 

“--but I’m pretty sure Barnes was trying to drop a hint, Steve.” Wilson is saying, voice low and urgent.

 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Steve responds in the same hushed tone, sounding incredulous at the very idea, “He was just stating that he remembered something from before.”

 

Bucky figures he’s heard enough. He walks into the kitchen and the two abruptly cease their conversation. He returns to his seat passively, not meeting either of their eyes. Steve asks if he’s alright and he nods. Steve reengages in conversation with Wilson. He zones out a little, trying to understand what Wilson means about him dropping hints. Maybe he'd been trying to rile Steve, just a little, but he hadn't really expected anything out of it. Although, Steve had seemed pretty affected by his revelation. But then again, he thinks, maybe he's letting his emotions cloud his judgement, seeing things he wants to see. It’s not like Steve ever showed any interest in men (much less, in Bucky) back in Brooklyn or during the war. But then he realizes that Steve never really showed interest in women either. Except for Peggy Carter, of course. Bucky allows himself to play around with the idea in his head that maybe, just maybe there’s a chance before pushing his hopes down into the depths of his soul. Steve’s already given him more than he deserves. He can't have this too.

 

* * *

 

The day after Bucky’s not-quite revelation, he starts watching Steve more closely. Suddenly, a lot of things start to make sense. For instance, why Steve is really the only thing he thinks he actually cares about. Or, why he wants to bury himself in Steve’s skin and never come out, ever. It’s sad, he thinks, because Steve is a good man, but who could love something broken like Bucky? And besides, Steve isn’t like that. The old Bucky would have known.

 

But watching Steve doesn’t just tell him more about himself. He notices that the darkness under Steve’s eyes that had seemed so inconsequential to Bucky on the first night has not faded at all. He knows that Steve doesn’t always sleep, and it still doesn’t seem right to him, but now he knows why, and it makes him want to fix it. Steve spends all his time taking care of him, and doesn’t Steve deserve to be taken care of too? And it’s more than sleep. Sometimes there’s this haunted look in Steve’s eyes that Bucky really, really hates, because it reminds him of himself, and Steve should never have to feel the way he does.

 

Bucky has nightmares, but so does Steve. Bucky knows because he’s heard Steve’s labored breathing on the nights he cannot sleep, or has sometimes been woken up by the bed jarring as Steve suddenly gets up to calm himself down. They're not as externally violent as Bucky's, but maybe that's just because Steve's had more time to adjust.

 

That night, Steve wakes in a panic, sitting up and pushing Bucky's arm off him, which in turn wakes Bucky up. Steve is breathing heavily and his eyes are darting around the room, trying to process his surroundings. Bucky had been startled by Steve's abrupt movement, but now he's just trying to figure out what he should do. "Steve," he says, quietly and Steve refuses to look at him.

 

"I'm alright, Buck. Go back to sleep." comes the reply, in a voice that sounds far too pained, and weary, to be the man who insists Bucky is his friend, who has done nothing but try and help him since he arrived here.

 

"Steve," he says again, more urgently, because he knows its a lie, because he does not sound  _ alright _ , and Bucky wants to help, has to help, somehow. Steve's eyes snap to him, distant and unseeing. It upsets him, seeing Steve like this, because Steve is so strong, Steve is the one who takes care of  _ him _ . With a start, he realizes there are shiny marks on his friend’s face. 

“You’re… Oh…” He breathes softly, “You’re crying.” He can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen Steve cry, including when they were children, and he’s sure he’s right, even accounting for his faulty memory. And that’s when he realizes just how bad Steve has it. Rarely has Steve ever allowed anyone to see the cracks in his armor, and if he’s being careless enough to allow Bucky to see them now… Bucky knows an involuntary cry for help when he sees one.

 

Steve’s eyes widen at the realization, as though he had not even known, and he hastily wipes at his face before turning away again. “Please go back to sleep.” He says woodenly.

 

Bucky gets his arms around Steve, and manhandles him around so that they're face to face before pulling him in closer. “Don’t you dare,” he warns, voice insistent in his caring, “Don’t you dare shut yourself down just because you’re so determined not to bleed on anyone that you can’t ask for help when you need it. You can’t do that to yourself.” Instinctively, he cards the fingers of his good hand through Steve’s hair, and he;s too wrapped up in seeing this new side of him, this reluctance to let anyone in, that he misses the small hitch in Steve’s breathing, the man startled by the action, “Why won’t you take care of yourself? Or at least let me? You rarely even sleep anymore, Stevie…”

 

“I can’t.” His voice is strained, but at least he’s talking, leaning into Bucky’s hand almost tentatively, like he’s worried if he acknowledges what’s happening, Bucky will stop, “Everytime I close my eyes, ever since--ever since the ice, I can’t see anything else. It’s just the plane and the cold, and it  _ hurts _ , and I just  _ can’t _ \--and sometimes it’s you falling, and it’s all I can see… Or now, sometimes the bridge, or--I’m so sorry, Bucky, I’m sorry I let you fall, I’m sorry I let them do this to you, I--I should’ve known, I should’ve got you out, I--” He caves with surprising force, pitching forward into Bucky’s chest, trembling, and Bucky just holds him there for a moment, stunned.

 

“Is that what this is?” Bucky asks slowly. “You--You blame yourself for what I...?” He can’t believe what he’s hearing. He’s always known that Steve’s had some kind of guilt complex whenever someone has problems he can’t fix, but this… This is beyond extreme, completely misplaced. Bucky knows he’s the one with all the scars and the bloody stains on his skin. He doesn’t deserve Steve’s forgiveness or his compassion or anything that he’s been given in the last week or so. And Steve thinks it  _ him. _

 

Bucky tips Steve’s chin up and forces him to look him in the eye, “I am--I am  _ not _ your fault, Steve. Everything that happened to me happened because…”  _ Because I’m not good. Because I’m weak. Because they broke me.  _

 

“It’s not your fault.” He says again, voice dangerously shaky. Steve doesn’t respond, just continues to loll against Bucky’s chest, wracked with full-body shivers. “ _ Never  _ your fault.” Bucky affirms, pressing Steve’s head into the space between his shoulder and neck, before maneuvering them both down onto the pillows. He holds Steve close for the rest of the night, until the shaking subsides. They don’t talk about it in the morning, but something is different between them now. Bucky might not be the same man Steve hopes for him to be, but neither of them are the same anymore, he’s realized, and just because their bond has changed… Doesn’t mean it cannot grow stronger. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're a boxer in the ring,  
> With brass knuckles underneath.  
> You're the curses through my teeth.  
> You're the laughter, you're the obscene.
> 
> You're a supplement, you're a salve,  
> You're a bandage, pull it off...  
> I think I love you, I think I'm mad."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much everyone for all the hits, and kudos, and comments in just three days! Feedback is always appreciated!

In the two weeks since Steve first found Bucky, the man has begun to acclimate to life with Steve caught up in an endless cycle of moping, suffering through brief flashes of memory, and occasionally being a bitter jerk. Today, he’s experiencing the last stage. Steve finds him on the couch and sits down next to him, and Buck can feel the apprehension in the Captain’ stance, his gaze, the way he fidgets, all of it. He doesn’t look up, continuing to stare pensively at the figures flashing across the television screen but not really seeing them. Everything frustrates him today beyond the point of focus,thought, or ability to do anything other than sit and look upset. Steve’s been on the edge, not sure what to do other than leave him alone, which somehow has made it worse. 

 

“Hey,” Steve says suddenly, taking a leap into conversation, “So, I was thinking… It’s a little empty in this apartment with just you and me. Would you be okay with maybe getting a pet?” Bucky’s mind is jolted from its angry whirl by his voice, per usual, and now his brow wrinkles in confusion. 

 

Bucky turns to fix him with a glare. “Wilson put you up to this? You know, I’ve already told you to tell him to butt out. I don’t need his help.”

 

Steve bites his lip. Bucky watches his face fall, and his eyes crinkle at the corners as he tries to figure out a way to respond to his hostility. “Sam may have suggested it. But I really do think it might help. I can’t… I can’t be here all the time. I wish I could be, but I have a duty to uphold. And I know how hard it is for you, being alone. And…” he leaves off and looks away, muttering quietly, “I think it could help me too.”

 

Bucky sits in silence, feeling like the complete ass that he’s been. He knows Steve has been through hell and back, just like he has. Maybe not in quite the same ways, but surrendering to death by plane crash and spending 70 years frozen in ice only to wake up in a completely different world and find that all your friends are gone or just as good as will take its toll on a person. Bucky is not the only one who wakes up in a cold sweat at night, and he knows it, even if he pretends not to. Steve’s already given him so much. It’s not right to rob him of this, especially if he’s willing to say outloud that he thinks he needs it. Besides, he’s not sure that he can ever refuse Steve. “Okay.” he says.

 

“Okay?” Steve looks back at him in surprise. He nods and rolls his eyes. A smile lights up Steve’s face. “Great! How about a cat? We can go down to the animal shelter tonight and pick one out! You can name it and everything!”

 

He nods again and shrugs, wanting to say something to atone for his rudeness, but no words coming to mind. All he can think about is the way Steve’s eyes went from a dull grey to bright and blue the moment he agreed. He can’t believe a simple “yes” did all that, but he’s glad Steve is so enthusiastic, and maybe a pet won’t be so bad. “Alright.”

 

Later that evening, they go out and stop by a pet store to pick up supplies and food for the cat. Then, they head to the animal shelter three blocks from Steve’s apartment. Bucky stands back in a corner, hiding his metal arm by jamming it into the pocket of his hoodie, while Steve has a brief conversation with one of the volunteers about which kind of cat might be right for them. 

 

They walk through the shelter, eyeing the cats, and suddenly, Steve stops and says, “How about that one?” And Bucky knows right away that it’s the one he wants and Steve is an awful person because there’s no way he can refuse this cat. It’s a young brown and white tabby, still a kitten.  _ It’s also missing its front left paw _ . It looks straight up at him with baleful green eyes and the edges of his lips twitch.

 

“Yeah.” he says minutely, voice almost hoarse as he watches the cat bat at the enclosure with one small paw, balancing its weight to achieve the action.

 

The volunteer, following closely behind them like some overly protective den mother and as chipper as ever, grins widely and says, “Oh, she’s a sweetheart! She’d be perfect for you. She’s a Siberian. They’re affectionate, low-maintenance, pretty independent. They love water. Great with kids too, if you’re moving towards that.” As casually as anything, the words slip from her lips and both men freeze. Bucky thinks Steve has stopped breathing for a moment, registering the out of place inhale.

 

Bucky, in the process of reaching out to pet the cat, is still as he flicks his eyes to meet Steve’s questioningly, letting the Captain respond to that one, because he only just regained his free will and is not prepared to answer something like that. Steve reddens. “Ah,” he stammers, “Good to know. But we’re not-- We don’t--”

 

The volunteer’s smile only falters for a minute before she pushes on, her voice dripping sugar and sunshine. She doesn’t seem to get the message. “Well, you never know. You might find that you do want them. But then, kids aren’t for everyone,” she chirrups, flipping her dark braids over her shoulder. “So, is this cat you want?”

 

Steve gives Bucky an inquisitive look. He nods in affirmation. “Yeah,” Steve replies. The volunteer goes to get the cat and then starts walking back to the front desk. 

 

“What happened to her?” Bucky inquires, speaking directly to the lady.

 

She gives him an apologetic look, “We’re not sure. She was brought in off the street, but she’s doing great now. All she needs is a happy home.”

 

Steve turns towards him, “What d’ya want to name her?”

 

He has to think for a minute. “Myshka,” He says finally, with a short nod of his head.

 

“Is that Russian?” Steve questions, tilting his head to the side slightly, “What does it mean?”

 

Bucky shrugs, “Means ‘little mouse.’” He replies, looking down at the little cat sitting upon the desk, licking at her fur.

 

Steve stares at him in disbelief. “We’re getting a cat…” he says slowly, “And you want to name it ‘mouse?’”

 

Bucky nods again, lips pressed together in an affirmative line. “You said I could pick the name.” He protests, raising his eyebrows at Steve, knowing the man would never deny him, nor go back on his word. 

 

With a sigh of resignation, Steve turns around and walks towards the front of the building. “Fine,” he huffs, as the volunteer turns to finish filing the paperwork, calling a cheery goodbye and wish of good luck to them as they depart, cat in arm .

 

While they’re in the car on the way home, he holds Myshka in his hand the entire time. She’s kinda small and he’s a little afraid he might crush her, but she doesn’t seem to mind. When they enter the apartment, he says to her, “Well, Myshka, what do you think?”

 

The cat seems to recognize that she’s being spoken to and responds with a sharp meow. Steve laughs and gently takes her from her perch on Bucky’s right shoulder. He looks happy. Much happier than Bucky has seen him since he’s been here. It’s nice, he decides, mentally noting that seeing Steve smile is good, and he would like to see it more often.

 

* * *

 

Another week after they get Myshka (who grows frighteningly fast), Steve comes to him with another proposition. “Buck… There’s something we need to talk about.” This is even worse than last time when all he wanted was a cat; Steve won’t meet his eye and he keeps swallowing nervously, as though his mouth is dry. He does not sit down this time, but remains standing, and Bucky turns his face up to look at him.

 

“Okay,” he says, preparing for the worst, like always, when Steve comes to him like this. He figures sooner or later Steve will have had enough of him, or he’ll do something wrong to cause the man to reject him. Steve takes a measured breath before he begins to speak, words running rapidly from his mouth as he tries to quickly get it over with.

 

“I’ve been getting a lot of pressure from Tony, Howard Stark’s kid, and a lot of other people to move into Avengers’ Tower in Manhattan. And I think… I think I’m going to.” He stumbles out, finally meeting Bucky’s gaze. His eyes are clear and almost grey in the light, and his pupils are wide, frightened. Frightened of Bucky? Maybe… Understandable. 

 

Bucky feels his blood run cold. This is it. Steve’s planning to finally drop Bucky from his life. He’s going to move away, out of their little apartment in DC, and Bucky’s probably never going to see Steve again. He’s always known it wouldn’t last. How could it? What has he ever given Steve to make him want to stay? Why would Rogers want to be around someone like him? He’s not even good enough to claim to be the man Steve knew before all of this happened, before HYDRa turned him into a animal, a machine.

 

Steve looks worried. He’s obviously picked up on Bucky’s distress and now his gaze widens even more as he begins to panic. “Aw, hell, Buck… I know it’s a lot to ask, picking up everything a moving to New York. I should’ve known it was too much. Look, you can stay here as long as you like, okay? I’ll take care of the rent and everything. And… and you can keep the cat. You don’t have to feel obligated to come with me, it’s fine. I really shouldn’t have asked, it was stupid.” He mutters, running his fingers through his mussed hair for what must be at least the fifth time, carding back the blonde locks, which stick up at odd angles.

 

“Wait,” Bucky interjects, trying to give his brain time to catch up with Steve’s mouth. “Come  _ with _ you? You want  _ me _ to move to New York  _ with you? _ ”

 

“Yeah… I mean… That is what I was asking… But if moving states is too much for you right now--” Steve mumbles, looking back down at his feet. 

 

“Steve, shut up for a minute. It’s not too much. It’s fine. It’s great. Let’s go.” Bucky says in a tone heavy with joy, offering him a smile, as warm relief floods through him. Steve  _ isn’t  _ abandoning him. He wants Bucky to come  _ with  _ him. He won’t lose him, for now, at least. He wants to tell Steve that they could move to goddamn Jupiter for all he cares, as long as he keeps Bucky by his side.

 

Steve flashes him a puzzled look though. “Then why were you--Wait. Did you think I was just gonna move away and leave you on your own with nowhere to go?” Bucky looks away, hoping that by hiding his face, his expression won’t give the truth away, but Steve isn’t having it. He moves so that he’s standing right in front of him,arms crossed over his chest, daring Bucky to ignore him. Even looking straight down, he’s staring at Steve’s shoes. Of course he cannot resist, and so his blue irises peek out from behind his dark lashes. He can’t face Steve’s eyes, so he settles his gaze on his mouth, his lips curved into a disbelieving and stern frown.

 

“Seriously? You’re my best friend, Buck. I spent months looking across the world for you, and you think I’m just gonna drop you the first chance I get? When are you gonna get it through that thick skull of yours that I  _ care _ about you! You’re important to me, okay?” Steve insists, placing his hands on Bucky’s shoulders to force him to meet his eye. Steve holds his gaze seriously, space between his eyes narrowing as he squints at the Soldier, trying to make him understand. Bucky can tell he  _ needs  _ him to know that he wants him, cares about him, maybe even can’t live without him, and its all he can do to bite his tongue and keep from spewing the same words back.

 

He is quiet, eyes questioningly roaming across Barnes’ slack face, indifferent gaze, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. Bucky should respond. He should say something, like  _ “You’re important to me too and I don’t ever want to lose you, and I wish I could say I don’t know what I’d do without you, but we both know, and I never want to be that again, so please don’t ever, ever leave me, because I need you more than I need water to live and you’re everything to me, the only thing I’ve ever cared about,” _ but it’s too close to the truth. He doesn’t know how he can say it without giving himself away, and he can’t do that to Steve, he can’t put him in that position, especially now, when he just came so close to losing him. But it doesn’t matter because Steve’s still talking anyway.

 

“Look,” he says, hand firmly on Bucky’s left shoulder tightening its grip, rocking him slightly, “I’d never leave you. Not unless you wanted me to.” He repeats slowly, looking Barnes directly in the eyes again. Bucky wants to look away, afraid the way his mouth curves into a small smile will reveal everything, but he is transfixed, unable to shut out Steve’s imploringly caring gaze. 

 

“No. No, I’m never gonna want that.” He blurts out suddenly, desperate to reassure the man. Bucky moves to grab Steve’s arm, even though the blond has made no move to pull away. And it’s enough. It has to be enough, because Bucky knows he can’t do anything more without revealing his secret. Steve beams at him anyway, and his his hammering heart nearly leaps from his chest, even as he knows everything will be alright as long as Steve Rogers wants him to stay.

 

* * *

 

The move to the tower does not go as smoothly as Steve apparently expects it to. When their car pulls up, there’s a welcoming party of sorts waiting for them. There are two men, one of which Bucky recognizes as Nick Fury (he’s almost certain he killed that man, but then again, his memory doesn’t count for much these days). He cringes when Fury makes eye contact with him through the window of the car. Steve notices and takes Bucky’s hand before they get out. “Hey, relax,” he says calmly, eyes flitting over Bucky’s tense stance nervously, “These are good people.”

Bucky ignores that statement, taking in the wide eyes of the people on the sidewalk. “Steve,” he asks slowly, his tone reserved and patient as understanding dawns on him, “Did you tell them I would be with you?”

 

Steve bites his lip, looking out across the sea of faces, “Not exactly.”

 

“Fuck.” Bucky mutters, and he visibly begins to panic, “Steve, don’t let them take me. You can’t let them take me.” From her crate in the back of the car, Myshka yowls a little, probably picking up on Bucky’s distress.

 

Steve squeezes his hand harder, “It’s okay. They’re not gonna take you anywhere. I promise. ‘Sides, anywhere you go, I’m coming with you. Just let me talk to them, okay?” The men outside the car are staring warily at the former assassin through the tinted glass now, probably wondering how many weapons he has on his person and how far they could run before he caught up. Steve glares back, eyes a silent protest at their treatment of him. They will not separate him from Barnes again; no one will. He gets out of the car. “Fury,” he greets calmly.

 

“Captain Rogers,” Fury responds, voice dull and distant, though his expression belies his intense scrutiny and concern. He shifts his stance, revealing a concealed gun, as though flashing some sort of warning to the Captain. From the car, Bucky registers when Steve’s jaw sets, reading their lips.

 

Before he can say anything else, the second man, who has dark hair, a moustache, and a goatee, has begun to speak. “Uhh, is that the Win--?”

 

“James Barnes of the 107th infantry.” Steve cuts him off pointedly. “He’ll be staying with me, Tony.” 

 

Stark’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t question how the Winter Soldier could possibly be Bucky Barnes. Steve knows he’s a smart man, but for him to just accept this… Clearly, someone has briefed him. Fury, Hill, or even Natasha, perhaps. SHIELD may be gone, but word still travels fast. It doesn’t really matter though. Steve just figures he’s got less explaining to do. 

 

“Captain Rogers, I really don’t think you--” Fury begins.

 

Steve interrupts again, “He’s staying with me. Anywhere he goes, I go.” He repeats stubbornly, squaring his shoulders and tossing his head back defiantly. Bucky’s mouth slides into a tiny grin. Steve’s still got that fighting spirit.

 

“Dammit, Cap!” Tony exclaims loudly, throwing up his hands in frustration, gesturing wildly towards where Bucky is still seated in the car, “You can’t just show up to _my_ _house_ carting around an assassin!”

 

“Please, Tony.” Steve’s expression and tone soften. He lowers his voice, even though he’s pretty sure Bucky isn’t really listening. He is wrong, of course. “He needs help. You can give it to him. My friend Sam’s been trying, but he doesn’t have the resources or the training. I thought he could… at least get him functioning… And it’s better than it was, but it’s… He’s remembered some things… Sam’s done what he can.” His face turns steely again, “Look, you can either agree to help me, or you can watch me turn around and drive back to DC. He’s--He’s not dangerous, at least not towards me. Here, you can monitor him anyway. It’s the best bet for us both.”

 

Tony and Fury trade glances, apprehension settling into consent. “Fine,” Tony concedes bitterly, gaze darting towards the vehicle sharply before he meets Steve’s again, voice becoming authoritative,  _ “But  _ there are conditions. First, he does not go near Pepper. And I mean he is  _ not _ allowed to be within 3 floors of her at any given point in time. Second, he does not touch any of my weapons. Third, we’re getting that arm off him immediately.”

 

Steve raises an eyebrow at the last one and Tony makes an stern expression right back.With an exasperated sigh, he launches into an explanation, speaking bluntly as though that will help Cap understand.Steve is offended; the serum has enhanced his mental capacity, after all, and he’s pretty sure he can understand simple logic, whatever it is. “Look, it’s HYDRA tech, right? Who knows what the hell it’s rigged with? Tracking device at the very least. And it looks pretty banged up. It's got to be leaking all kinds of radiation, and maybe it won't bother you, but not all of us are jacked up on super soldier serum. Cap, you've got a blind spot, and it's about 6 feet tall and has a metal arm. It’s a wonder no one’s gone and shot you in the head while you slept yet.”

 

“You can’t do that to him!” Steve protests, voice rising as he waves an arm across the space between them, cutting Tony off, “It’s his  _ arm!  _ It’s part of him!”

 

Tony shrugs unsympathetically, eyes raising towards the sky in an unamused manner. “I’ll make him a replacement eventually, but there’s no way I’m letting him into this building with a super weapon that’s attached to him.”

 

“That’s not all,” Fury breaks in, as though to remind them that he’s still there and has power over even Tony Stark. His voice harsh, “Once he’s in there, he will not leave the perimeter without clearance and an escort. I want blood and tissue samples on the books, as well as a brain scan. And we’ll implant a tracker that will take offensive measures if he attempts to leave without permission. And Rogers, you should know, once he’s inside that tower, he can kiss his anonymity goodbye.”

 

“He isn’t a dog,” Steve says quietly, but he doesn’t offer up any more arguments. Instead, he says, “Also, we’ll need you to provide arrangements for the cat.” 

 

Stark turns to Fury, huffing a disbelieving laugh. “They have a cat. Are you kidding? They actually have a cat, I can’t--” He whines, and Rogers sighs at the man’s dramatics. He’s too much like his father sometimes, he thinks.

 

Steve tunes him out as he opens the car door and goes to relay the conditions to Bucky. To his immense relief, Bucky does not object to any of them, and so they head inside the Tower once they get admitted to the security system, an electronic voice welcoming them in. 

 

They take a room on one of the higher floors. It’s spacious and well-furnished, probably in the realm of what could be considered a penthouse or suite. There are two bedrooms, each with their own bed. Steve doesn’t inform Stark that only one will be used. He knows all too well how that information might be misconstrued and he knows how insensitive Stark is. Neither he nor Bucky need that right now, so it’s for the best that he just doesn’t say anything at all. Somehow, in the span of the time it took their elevator to get from the ground floor to this one, Tony’s staff had somehow gotten ahold of an oddly well-crafted litterbox and a fancy pet bed that looks nicer than anything Steve would’ve slept in before the ice.

 

Almost immediately after all of their belongings have been packed in, Stark leads them (excluding Fury, who vanished some time ago) down to his lab and directs Bucky to a table. They all know what’s coming. Bucky is noticeably uncomfortable but his teeth are gritted and he seems determined to go through with this. Steve admires him for it. He’s lost everything, and he’s still willing to give. Typical Bucky. As he goes to lie down on the table, Steve offers him a reassuring squeeze on his human arm. Before he can remove his hand, Bucky reaches up and grasps it. Steve’s hardly going to stop him, and Stark’s too fixated on eyeing the metal arm to notice and make snide comments, so really it doesn’t matter.

 

“Look, buddy, I’m really sorry about this. But you understand. That thing has to come off. It’s foreign tech from a known terrorist group, and there’s no way you’re staying here with it on, okay?” Stark says, actually managing to look slightly remorseful and apologetic. Without waiting for a response, he continues, all the emotion gone from his voice as he falls into the routine of science, “JARVIS, run some scans on the good Sergeant Barnes’s arm, please.”

 

“Right away, sir.” JARVIS answers, the disembodied voice floating through the room. There’s a gentle humming noise and a ray of light pans up and down Bucky’s metal arm. He tightens his hand around Steve’s.

 

“Scan complete,” JARVIS reports. Stark pulls up a holographic blueprint of the arm and begins conversing rapidly back and forth with JARVIS.

 

Steve doesn’t bother following along. It gets too technical too quickly, and really, Bucky is his main concern at this point. “How are you doing?” he asks, looking straight into Bucky’s face,his pupils wide with concern.

 

“Fine.” Bucky grits out, shrugging Steve off. He understands why the man is worried, but at this point focusing anything other than his arm is just irritating.

 

Steve feels terrible for having to subject him to this, but this really is the best option for Bucky. He will be safe here. Stark will have access to resources that Steve doesn’t, and Bucky will be able to heal. At least, he hopes he will. God, he really hopes he will. “Thanks for being so good about this,” he tells him, offering a short smile. The expression Bucky makes in return isn’t exactly a smile, but it’s an attempt, the corners of his mouth turning up in sort of a grimace, but his eyes are warm and he’s trying, which is good enough for Steve.

 

Stark, interrupting whatever is going on between the two of them, claps his hands together and looks up at Steve. “Right. So, you really should be thanking me for getting this thing off him. Do you want me to explain why and list everything they put in that damn arm, or should I just go ahead and get it off?”

 

Bucky, apprehensive, looks to Steve for an answer, so he says, “Just get on with it.” There’s no need to prolong Bucky’s discomfort, and if they want to talk about anything once it's over, they can always come back down to the lab. 

 

“Okay.” Stark replies, readying his station and, returning his attention to the arm, “Barnes, let me know if anything hurts. I’m--I’m not a doctor, and this is definitely not my area of robotics, but I’ll do my best.”

 

It is not a painless process. Bucky’s metabolism is too high, it burns through whatever anesthetic they give him so quickly that Bucky eventually refuses it at all when a drone attempts to jam a needle in his vein for the third time. Tony looks almost hesitant to keep on, his hands hovering over the buzzing tech. Bucky grits out that HYDRA did more damage than this, sets his jaw and demands Stark continue. There are wires connected to nerves, and there are metal plates and bolts and joints and gears, and Stark says it looks like some of his ribs and part of his spine may have been replaced with some kind of alloy to compensate for the weight and strain of the arm. It's completely touch and go. Bucky screams. A lot. And Steve nearly calls it off, tells Stark to stop and just let his friend be. Bucky’s pain isn’t worth this. But Bucky shakes his head vehemently, insisting that they finish it. He wants it over with, he wants it off, and he wants to leave. By the time Stark says he's almost halfway done, Bucky’s nails are digging into Steve’s hand so hard that the little red half moons will soon begin to spurt drops of serum-filled blood into the lab floor. Steve doesn’t care. He just does his best to console his friend, reassuring him that they’ll be done soon and that he’s doing great. When it  _ is  _ finally over, Bucky is breathing heavily and there are tear tracks on his face, not that anyone points them out. But it’s done. It’s gone. The arm is off. Whatever Stark found in it can’t hurt them because it’s been removed, and that seems to be enough to satisfy both men. Bucky looks a wreck, his sweaty hair plastered to his forehead. His skin is flushed and shiny with sweat and tears, running in dirty trails down both cheeks. His jaw is sore and his teeth feel rough from gritting them so long, as he runs his tongue over them. At some point he bit into his lower lip, and the tender sore stings when he licks over it. Steve doesn’t look much better, his eyes never leaving Bucky, flitting nervously across his face. 

 

“Thank you.” Steve says to Tony, who, face pale and gaze fixed on the bandages seeping red across Barnes’ shoulder, looks like he’s going to be sick.

 

Stark grunts. “JARVIS, call up some doctors or something so we can get those blood and tissue samples and the brain scan Fury wanted. And have them do a med eval while they’re up here.”

 

“Of course, sir.” The machine answers automatically, voice too lax and neutral for the heavy situation. 

 

When the medical team finally appears in Tony’s lab, Bucky has mostly regained his composure. They don’t ask any questions. They’re probably paid well enough that the answers to any questions they might have don’t really matter. The blood and tissue samples are easy. Even the brain scan is easy in comparison to the removal of the arm, even though Bucky is noticeably upset by the device that is fitted around his temples and the back of his head. 

 

Before they are allowed to leave, the head of the medical team gives Steve a rundown on Bucky’s condition. “Physically, whatever version of the super-soldier serum he was given seems to have made him stronger and faster, as well as increased his tissue density. His cells also displays signs of regenerative abilities, similar but not quite as powerful as yours, which explains why he didn’t get much bigger, the way you did. He doesn’t metabolize as fast as you do either, although the process is still much faster than that of a normal human’s. HYDRA had to give him one hell of a cocktail of extremely powerful drugs and sedatives to keep him compliant, and a lot of it is still in his system. He’s gonna have a hard time re-adjusting to living without them, but we think the worst of any withdrawal symptoms will have passed already. Be aware though, as his body’s chemical composition regresses and his hormone levels return to whatever is standard for them at this point, he may act strangely. Now, the physiology of people like you and Sergeant Barnes is largely unknown, but coming down off of a chemically-induced stupor like that is likely going to leave him irritable and hungry, and he may initially have to deal with increased libido.”

 

Steve's eyebrows shoot up at that last one, but he nods anyways and asks, “What can you tell me about the state of his memory?”

 

The doctor sighs, “I’m very sorry Captain Rogers, but my team is not composed of any experts on the neurophysiology or neuroanatomy of super-soldiers. His brain shows signs of electrical damage in sites that deal with memory, which is consistent with information about memory wipes using electrical currents that we received from Mr. Stark after the HYDRA information leak. Again, we don’t really understand what this means for him, especially since we don’t understand his regenerative abilities very well and how they affect the brain is a mystery to us entirely. But it seems that the longer he remains out of cryostasis, the more time his body has to heal, the more he remembers. We have a good deal of hope for him, Captain Rogers, but he has undergone a significant amount of trauma for a very long time. We recommend that he begin to see a psychiatrist multiple times a week.”

 

“Okay,” Steve agrees weakly, and after a few more comments from the doctor, that’s that.

 

Steve ushers Bucky back to their room, and Bucky can’t seem to stop looking at the bandage-covered stump of his shoulder. About 20 minutes later, Steve catches him touching it lightly with his fingers, but when he notices that he is being watched he drops his hand and looks suddenly very guilty, as though having part of himself removed isn’t grounds enough for him to be curious about what is left.

* * *

For the most part, life isn’t too different from when they lived in the apartment in DC. The biggest difference, Bucky thinks, is that now he wakes up and sees a skyline that tugs at his mind with familiarity, even if it’s not quite from the angle he was once used to. Of course, there’s that whole business about only having one arm now, but Steve has taken it upon himself to help him with literally anything he can, so it’s not too bad. And every week, he sits down with Stark and talks about his new arm, so he knows that’s coming along. Well, really, it’s more like Stark shoots off suggestions while Bucky nods either yes or no. That’s another thing that’s a little different. While they were isolated in Steve’s apartment, there is no such seclusion here. Steve seemingly has many friends and they come by to greet him whenever they are around, but for the most part, they steer clear of Bucky (excluding Stark) and are extremely considerate of his need for space while he pieces himself back together. Eventually, Steve starts gently introducing some of them to him. Bucky says, "Yeah, I'd love to meet your team, so that I can ruin your relationship with all of them, so that I end up being the only person you have left in the world and you're forced to stay with just me forever." He's only joking 25%, but Steve laughs, and if he wants to think Bucky's joking 100%, then Bucky isn't gonna ruin it for him. Bucky doesn’t actually try to damage Steve’s relationships, although he does pass judgement on each of them, even if it’s silent and never to be told to Steve.

 

First, of course, is Stark. Bucky doesn’t trust him. Might even go so far as to label him a threat. He’s grateful for Stark helping out with the whole arm thing, but he still doesn’t trust him. Stark is brash and self-assured, Bucky knows that his demeanour is only a shell to hide a vulnerable underbelly. He’s met (killed) men like this before. Target his emotions (like Pepper Potts, who Stark says he is not allowed to be within a 100 foot radius of, "even though she would probably just set you on fire.") and Stark will be down for the count.

 

The second is Dr. Banner. Bucky is frankly underwhelmed by Banner, but he’s not stupid. There’s something that he hasn’t been told, and he knows it. Banner seems friendly enough, but there’s something unsettling about how calm and well-adjusted he seems to be. It unnerves him. Until Bucky knows whatever it is he’s hiding, is able to account for all variables, Banner is not trustworthy. Whenever Steve goes to visit Banner, Bucky tags along, and is constantly sure to situate himself in between the two. He won’t risk Steve getting hurt just because Bucky was too dumb or too slow to realize that Banner is indeed an actual threat.

 

Nick Fury comes around sometimes. He never speaks to Bucky, and Bucky is more than happy to keep things this way. In fact, Bucky generally tends to hide whenever Fury comes around, and if he’s being completely honest with himself, he’s still almost certain that he killed that man. But then again, Bucky’s memories aren’t exactly reliable as of recent.

 

Occasionally, a very strange man with long blond hair visits, often bringing with him an entourage of scientists. His name is Thor, and Bucky has noticed that he is extremely large and likes to carry around a mean-looking hammer. He is loud and he walks with an air that makes him impossible not to notice. Steve introduced them to each other once, and Thor had given a booming laugh and attempted to grasp Bucky by the arm, which hadn’t really gone over well with him. He still can’t stand to be touched by anyone (except for Steve) and when that happened, he had somehow ended up halfway across the room, behind a door as if it would somehow shield him. Steve had apologized profusely and from that point on, there were no more introductions.

 

It didn’t really matter though. As far as Steve’s associations went, those 4 and Sam Wilson were the only ones that ever really appeared frequently. At least, up until their fifth day in the tower. That’s when Romanoff and the archer show up. Back from a mission in Caracas, Venezuela, he hears Romanoff tell Steve when she stops by their flat the night she shows up in the tower with her friend. Bucky has predictably shut himself up in Steve’s room, and he knows that Romanoff knows he’s there (he’s heard Steve talking about him on the phone with her), but not once does she ask about him. He’s grateful for it, because he’s remembered more about her (more than he knew there was), and he’s not sure he can stomach looking at her face right now. Halfway through dinner, Bucky hears the sound of an outraged squawk and a crash. Then Steve’s poking his head through the doorway, and setting down Myshka in the room. “Seems like she doesn’t like Natasha very much,” Steve tells him, and then walks out and shuts the door.

 

Two days later, he decides that they have to talk sometime, and it’s opportune because Steve is out with the archer (Barton, Bucky thinks), so he won’t question where or what Bucky is leaving their room for. He finds Romanoff lounging in the jacuzzi on the outdoor terrace of the tower where the residential pool is located (only those who live in the tower and personal friends have access to it, and that list is very short, Stark has assured him).

 

The air is brisk tonight, but not unbearably cold, and the steam curling around the hot tub in tendrils is visible. Bucky stops in the glass doorway, several meters away from the jacuzzi, where Romanoff has her head tipped back and eyes shut, fingers of one hand curled around a glass of champagne sitting on the edge of the cement. He’s not vain enough to think she isn’t aware of his presence. He knows she’s much more capable than that. Still, he’s willing to play along with her game.

 

“Romanoff.” He addresses her, and her eyes slide open lazily as she turns to look at him.

 

“Don’t bother with formalities, James. They don’t suit you.” She tells him, holding his stare intently. “Come in, I know they didn’t have luxuries like this where they were keeping you.”

 

“Natalia,” he amends, and steps closer to the hot tub. He starts stripping down to his undergarments as he continues to talk, having lost all need for modesty a long time ago (except for when he’s with Steve, because Steve is… Different… And he doesn’t need to see the ugly web of scarring on his left shoulder and all the other marks HYDRA has left on him). “I remembered. Who you are. And who I am. And what I did. I wanted to tell you.”

 

She frowns but she isn’t angry or bitter, “You’ve done a lot. Can I ask you to be a little more specific?”

 

Bucky shifts his weight from side to side before stepping into the water, allowing the slightly too-intense heat to wash over him, “Well, first, there was that whole DC thing. So… uh… Sorry about that. And then there was a mission in Odessa. I--I think that was you.”

 

She nods, and stretches the cutout space in the side of her onepiece swimsuit to expose her right hip, where a scar starbursts across her skin.

 

“Sorry.” He says again, before continuing on, “But, um. I remembered before that too. Training you and those other girls in the Red Room. I’m--um--”

 

“It’s okay,” Natalia cuts him off and drinks a little of her champagne, “What you were then is not who you are now. I read about what they did to you. You and I have both been on the same end of their manipulation techniques, and I won’t hold you accountable.”

 

He’s about to thank her, but suddenly, there are several questions niggling at the back of his mind. “Why didn’t you tell him? Steve, I mean. Why didn’t you tell him that I trained you?”

 

She fixes him with a neutral look, “I didn’t know until recently. They were very thorough with my mind. Only reason I know now is because I was in Russia digging for some info before I went out to Venezuela.”

 

Bucky nods. “And--What about the other girls? Where are they? What happened to them?”

 

“A lot of them are missing or dead.” Natalia shifts her gaze to a point on the floor, bitterness creeping into her expression, “Others got stuffed in cryo-freeze like you. They’re probably still there. Some were dropped into society as sleeper agents with false memories implanted into their minds. They don’t even know they’re spies. A couple are active,  working as freelancers though. I saw Yelena Belova a few months back. I don’t think she recognized me. She tried to kill me.” She laughs a little dryly.

 

He nods again, and on a whim, suddenly submerges himself in the water. The rush of bubbles and heat around him is calming. Then he surfaces and out of the blue, before he can stop himself, he’s asking, “Are you and Steve--?”

 

“Friends.” Natalia cuts him off definitively and eyeing him, “Just friends.”

 

And again, before he can stem the flow of words coming from his mouth, he says, “Good.”

 

Natalia cocks an eyebrow at him and he tries to play it off as a joke, drawing on the guidance of that old ghost in his mind.

 

Bucky attempts to smirk, “You’re not really his type anyway.”

 

Natalia nods sagely. “By the way, your cat really does not like me.” Then closes her eyes again, lowering her head onto the edge of the cement around the hot tub. Bucky exits the tub, reaches for his clothes and a towel, and then strides out, feeling relieved and slightly terrified. It feels good that he’s got all that Red Room bullshit off his chest, but he also knows that she saw right through him about Steve. He just hopes she has enough sense or just decency or courtesy or whatever to not actually say anything to Steve. The poor man’s given him more than enough as it is, even without knowing that Bucky’s hopelessly, stupidly in love with him.

 

When he gets back to their suite, Steve has returned from wherever he went with Barton. Bucky draws the fluffy towel closer around his body and stares back as Steve takes in his wet hair. “Did you go swimming?” He asks, and there’s a note of surprise in his voice, which Bucky really can’t begrudge him because up until now, he hadn’t actually left the suite without Steve at all.

 

Bucky nods and crosses the room to sit on the couch next to his friend. He allows himself the indulgence of resting his head with his still-dripping hair on Steve’s shoulder. “Let’s watch something,” he suggests with a nod toward the TV, because he wants to be able to spend as much time conscious with Steve as he can.

 

“Okay,” Steve agrees, and his arm comes up to sit around Bucky, inadvertently nudging part of the towel off Bucky’s shoulders. Steve doesn’t seem to notice, but Bucky surely does. Screw whatever he said about modesty before.

 

* * *

 

When Steve gets up, he only feels a little guilty about leaving Bucky alone to go down to the gym, but if Bucky’s leaving the room on his own now, Steve thinks he can handle being by himself for a little. Plus, Steve hasn’t punched anything in a really, really long time, and he’s getting antsy. So that’s where he finds himself at 8 AM, wrapping his knuckles in tape.

 

He expected the gym to be big and modern, what with Stark’s penchant for things like that, but he didn’t expect that anyone else would actually use it, especially this early. Needless to say, he’s a little surprised when Natasha throws the double doors open and strides in, making for mats on the other side of the gym. Then she notices Steve and stops.

 

He gives her a hesitant wave, noticing the strange look she’s giving as she approaches him. He’s just starting to say, “Hey,” when she barks out, “Tell me you’re not sleeping with Barnes.”

 

“ _ What?! _ ” He chokes out with a surprised whine to his voice, taking a step back from her in shock. Steve can feel his eyes bugging out.

 

Natasha doesn’t waver, her eyes sliding over to meet his with a steely gaze, hard and pressing. “ _ Tell  _ me you  _ aren’t  _ sleeping with him. Honestly, Steve, I thought you were better than that. Although it explains a lot.”

 

“I-- _ what?! _ ” Rogers stammers out again, dropping his head down in confusion. He blinks, trying to make sense of what she’s saying, and more importantly,  _ why _ . Him sleeping with BUCKY? Where would she even get an idea like that… He’s not, and Bucky wouldn’t...

 

Natasha huffs an irritated sigh and changes her tone, switching to another topic with affronted eye roll as she reaches forward to shove him slightly.  “You should’ve  _ told _ me you were into men. Would’ve made trying to get a date for you a lot easier!” Then she crosses her arms, voice dropping to a lower pitch as she fixes him with another telling glare, mouth a thin, berating line, “But still, that’s the  _ last  _ thing James needs right now! That kind of emotional pressure is only going to confuse and upset him even more! He’s not ready for it.”

 

Steve feels his face sliding into a baffled frown as all the blood rushes to his cheeks, and he’s quick to hold up his hands in surrender, as though trying to push back the idea as he protests, “Natasha, Natasha, _ stop _ , I’m not sleeping with him!”

 

She raises an eyebrow, looking doubtful. Her eyes never leave his, and he squirms beneath her pinning gaze. “You’re sure?” she questions, lilting voice quiet and rough, prying. 

 

“I… think I would know if I were…?” Steve mumbles, still lost. He shakes his head, feeling the need to explain, to make this clear to her why none of this would ever happen in the first place because he’s not like that, and Bucky would never, and the entire thing is just a ridiculous mistake, “And I don’t--I’m not--into men…”

 

Natasha gives him a skeptical look, brows knitting together as she tosses her head back to look over him with a bemused half smile, and Steve is suddenly aware that his face is burning. “You’re  _ still  _ a shit liar, Rogers. You know it’s  _ okay  _ to be gay now, right?”

 

“No, I know that, but I’m not--I like women, okay?” He states again, starting to panic. His palms, chalked up, feel clammy, and his skin is burning against his bones, and every muscle is seizing up, tingling. He feels faint, and frantic; she has to  _ understand _ . 

 

Natasha huffs out a breathy and amused laugh, rolling her eyes at him. “Sure you do, that’s why you rejected every girl I tried to set you up with.” She shakes her head as he attempts to dissuade her by protesting that he has shown interest in women, women like Peggy, and the agent cuts him off again. “But you also like James. So you’re into both.” She asserts, and he knows she’s not asking, she’s insisting. Steve’s mouth drops open to reply, to deny it all, but then he really starts to think about her words… And remembers all the things he's ever thought about Bucky. His face goes red again, and his mouth shuts because he’s beginning to realize that she’s utterly right, and Steve is afraid. 

 

He sighs, realizing that she has him found out, “Okay. Okay, maybe I do,” and it’s the first time he’s ever admitted it to anyone, or said it outloud and he has to lean against the wall to ground himself.The world feels like it has tilted on his axis, and his head is beginning to grow lighter. He begins to breath rapidly, irregularly, hands shaking. 

 

Natasha, stepping forward with wide eyes, seeming to realize she's pushed him a bit too far, pats his shoulder awkwardly, “There’s nothing wrong with that.” She reminds him, tone gentle and completely different from her scrutinizing bite only minutes earlier. In the back of his mind, Steve feels he should be astounded by her ability to go from interrogator to comforter in mere seconds, but at this point has learned never to doubt Romanoff. 

 

Steve takes several deep breaths and then weakly chokes out, “Please don’t tell him, he has no idea, and he--He doesn’t like me that way anyway.”

 

She gives him another weird look, but decided she's forced enough out of him tonight, and figures to just agree with him. “Oh…” She nods, as if realizing something important, but not commenting on it. Her eyes become bright and she takes a step closer to him, dropping her voice again. “You do know,” she says slowly, “that James has slept with men before, right?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, he told me a little after he first came back, but he… It’s not like that.” He tells her, gradually returning to normal, and Natasha nods again, still eyeing him strangely. It makes Steve more uncomfortable than he can say. Then Steve frowns, “How do  _ you  _ know that? And why do you call him James?”

 

Natasha turns to stare a little off to the side, voice becoming distant and soft. “Do you remember what I told you before I left for Russia? I said I was counting on the time it would take to establish new covers… I was also counting on it to give me a chance to do a little more digging. Pull up some more information on my early years with the Russians. And I did.” Steve feels like his heart is crawling into his throat but she keeps going, “I found out that he was there. I remembered that he trained us. The Black Widows, I mean.”

 

“Oh God…” He’s not supposed to be able to faint like this anymore, but he feels dangerously lightheaded for the second time that day. For all the serum did, it can’t protect him from his own emotions. “I didn’t think… Natasha, I’m sorry, I had no idea.”

 

“Yeah, well… It isn’t your fault. I forgave him. For all of it. I read the file I gave you. What they did to him… They did a lot of that to me too. I won’t hold that against him.” She continues seriously, sounding a bit sad. “Anyway, to answer your other question, I went on a couple missions with him when I was older. He slept with a lot of people, especially when the mission called for it. I've never known him to be picky.” She adds bluntly, and decides it's a perfect time to leave Steve along with his thoughts following that comment, turning away and heads for the mats again without another word.

 

Steve stands motionless for a little bit, not sure if he’s even understanding what just happened, or if he’s completely okay after it all, before cracking his still-wrapped knuckles and moving towards the reinforced punching bags. He  _ really _ needs to hit something. 

 

* * *

 

It's a bad day, now fading into a bad night. Bucky's sitting in the corner of their bedroom, silent and trembling. He doesn't want to blame Steve, and really it's not his fault. It's Bucky's own fault for becoming so dependent on him. After Steve came back from the gym the day before, he'd been... Distant. Is  _ still  _ distant, for whatever reason. Doesn't really matter because Bucky's not about to press him. Point is, Steve's been pretty reserved for the last 36 hours or so. Apparently, Bucky doesn't handle that well. Normally, Steve is his comfort blanket, but now that Steve's been acting so removed, Bucky can't go to him.

 

It's only fair that Steve should pull back a little. He can't always take care of Bucky and coddle him. But that doesn't mean that Bucky doesn't wish he could. He just wants to always be close to Steve. It’s his own fucking fault, for feeling so touch-starved. Damn to hell whatever that says about him, because when he's not within in touching distance of Steve, he has some really fucking bad days. As evidenced by today. Or tonight, now. He feels so weak, unable to even last a few days without the man being there for him to lean on.

 

So he's sitting in the corner of their room, while Steve sits on the bed, drawing with Myshka curled up on his feet. And also staunchly ignoring him. Well, not ignoring him, but generally speaking-- _ not  _ speaking. The blond’s body language has been very reserved and not quite welcoming, hence Bucky being in the corner rather than on the bed. Steve is usually a lot more involved and hands-on with him (both literally and metaphorically). He actually bothers to initiate conversations with him, because they both know Bucky sure as hell isn't going to start any. Bucky prefers is that way, because he’s so aware of how he might say the wrong thing, and waiting for the other to start is just easier. But honestly, this silence is stifling. Of course, when Steve starts laughing wryly to himself, Bucky nearly jumps out of his skin.

 

"Sorry, sorry." Steve apologizes softly, flipping his gaze over to where Bucky sits in sad seclusion. "You doing any better?" He asks, voice gentle. 

 

It's not much of an opening, but Bucky will take whatever he can get. After a day and a half of pretty much nothing, he's desperate for any interaction with Steve. "I'll be okay," he assures him quickly, and then continues on, curious at Steve’s outburst, "What'cha laughing at, Stevie?"

 

Steve bites his cheek, a bitter twist to his wry smile, "Myself, mostly."

 

"Why's that?" Bucky prompts, unwilling to quit it and let Steve be. He wants to keep talking to him, can't stand the thought of another night of silent avoidance. 

 

"I'm... Not a good person..." He mutters, and Bucky’s eyebrows raise as he narrows his gaze in on the Captain's expression. Steve's got that self-deprecating smirk on.

 

Bucky gapes at him, voice rising as he blurts out, "You're joking, right? Why the hell do you say that?"

 

Steve line of vision darts down to the dark cloth of the bedcovers, adamantly avoiding eye contact. "Because I really want to find the people that did this to you and kill all of them." He grits out, eyes squinting shut. His voice is gravelly, and heated; his hands clenching into fists at his sides that belie how upset he truly is. Bucky understands his frustration, but Steve has him concerned, and that comment seemed to come out of nowhere. 

 

He feels almost like the breath has been knocked out of him. He's so messed up and desperate for Steve's attention that he gets off on the guy saying he wants to kill for him. "Well," he chuckles numbly, voice sounding far away to his own ears. "If you think you're not good because of that, then what does that make me?"

 

"That's different, Buck. You didn't have a choice--" comes Rogers’ immediate reply, and Bucky puts an end to it immediately. He doesn't want to hear this again, nor does he want to argue. 

 

"Didn't I?" He tosses back as he raises an eyebrow at the man on the bed. 

 

Steve finally looks straight at him. "If you can honestly tell me that you were aware… That you had any say in the matter... If you can tell me that you knew the option of not following orders existed, then you can tell me you had a choice. But that's not what you've said before, so I'm inclined to think that even if you did have a choice, you didn't know about it, not then."

 

He knows Steve is right. After so many punishments for disobeying, so many procedures to break his spirit and his will to fight, so many memory wipes, and Pierce’s mind games, it had never even occurred to him to do anything other than what he'd been instructed to do up until Steve had started pleading with him on the helicarrier. Bucky sighs, old guilt rising up in his throat, "I should've known. No one good just lets themselves be broken like that."

 

"Don't do that to yourself," Steve tells him, and he turns to fix him with a determined gaze. It’s the most inviting his body language has been in the past 36 hours.

 

Bucky snorts in response, "Hypocrite. You think you're a bad man, Steve? I got news for you, pal." He decides not to ignore the opportunity though, and moves from his corner and crawls up onto the bed, next to Steve, pressing so close he can feel the heat coming off of the man’s shoulder, though it barely brushes his own. "You're the best of the fucking best, dumbass. Greatest man I've ever met."

 

"Yeah, okay, Buck." The other responds, still with that tiny, sad smile. Finally,  _ finally _ , Steve reaches out and slings an arm around his shoulder, his arm tightening as it pulls Barnes in against his chest, everything suddenly warm. And oh God, 36 hours without contact and Steve’s finally touching him again. Bucky completely melts with relief. The blond starts to draw away, clearly concerned by Bucky's reaction. "Should I not...? Are you alright?" The blond asks tentatively, moving back to give him a bit of space.

 

Bucky, mouth dry, nods furiously and pulls Steve back against him. "Yeah, yeah, I'm good."

 

God, it’s ridiculous how he takes up everything Steve gives him, and then some. There’s another silence again, but it’s less oppressive this time. Still, Bucky needs to ask, “Is this because… Did--um… Did Natasha… Say something to you?” If she’d told him about what they’d discussed in the hot tub… How Bucky felt about Steve… That could explain the sudden lack of interaction. His stomach seizes up as he hopes he’s wrong. And yet, if Steve is holding him right now, maybe he took it well? 

 

Steve is just a little too slow to hide the fleeting look of panic on his face. “She--uh--Yeah… She did. She caught me in the gym yesterday and kinda reprimanded me? And I think she was trying to give me advice too? I know she didn’t mean anything by it. Tasha’s tough on people, especially her friends. Even more so on herself.”

 

So, his secret is safe. That isn’t exactly what Bucky was expecting to hear, or even what he thinks he wanted to, but really, it’s better this way. Steve would probably take 10 steps backwards if he knew. And that’s the exact opposite of what Bucky wants. He leans further into Steve, resting his head in the crook of his neck, cheek beside Steve’s collar. They lounge there for another fifteen minutes, and then Steve's phone vibrates on the bedside table, startling both of them from their contemplative silence. Steve reluctantly releases Bucky to lean across the bed, side straining and shirt hem hitching up enough to expose a sliver of his abdomen as he snatches up the device, thumbs tapping against the screen to unlock it. 

 

"It's from Clint," he reads aloud, briefly looking up at his friend, "He says there's Thai food in the common area. You wanna go and get some?"

 

Bucky shrugs, reluctant to move off the bed and away from Steve. But he is hungry, and the food that Barton brings to the tower is often good. "'Kay," he concedes.

 

The two of them head down a few floors to the common area, and Bucky can't really help it if he presses up against Steve's shoulder a little. He sees Steve exchange a look with Natasha when they arrive, as if challenging her to say something about... Whatever her beef with him was... But Bucky decides not to worry about it, whatever it's about; he's too focused on the steaming boxes of food on the table, and the lingering feeling of Steve’s arm around him at last.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I have had recurring nightmares  
> That I was loved for who I am  
> And missed the opportunity  
> To be a better man..."

The arm, Stark informs them about a week later, a message chiming in suddenly through the speaker system rigged throughout their floor, that the new arm will be ready for attachment within a day. Bucky is startled out of the daze he’d been in all morning as memories resurfaced, sitting curled beneath the covers long after Steve rose to go down to the gym and then returned, taking up residence beside his friend without a word. A sketchbook and pencil propped lazily up against his knees, he’s more staring at the slant of sunlight falling across his page as it peeks through the curtain over the window, rather than actually drawing; Barnes knows he is sitting with him in a silent offering of comfort, which he appreciates.

 

Bucky jumps to attention the moment Stark’s disembodied voice rings out into the space, breaking their comfortable silence, and Steve is quick to rise, grabbing Bucky’s arm and peering into his face, trying to catch the man’s wild eye enough to calm him down. Stark, somehow able to surmise what is going on, mutters a quick apology, Bucky finally able to sit still beside the Captain as they stare up at the white paint of the ceiling, and repeats what he had said about the arm. Bucky’s stomach swoops when he registers what Stark has said, what remains of his left shoulder beginning to tingle beneath the tight bandages. He’s finally on his way to being complete again, or as complete as he can be after emerging from HYDRA. He knows that he needs the arm, but sometimes in thought he has a hard time convincing himself it wouldn’t be better to go on without it… To try and keep away as much artificially engineered parts of himself as he can. He hasn’t told anyone that, not even Steve, because he knows the whole thing is ridiculous; he needs his left arm. Pulled out of his reverie again by Tony’s voice, the man also made a point of telling Bucky that he and Dr. Banner have engineered a highly potent sedative that would likely work on him (and Steve) despite his enhanced metabolism.

 

It turns out that they _can_ get tipsy, if not totally smashed. The key is a constant supply of extremely potent alcohol (rather than a bottle of cheap wine from a bombed out pub in London), so it stands to reason that if one were to hook either of them up to an IV with a powerful sedative (such as the one Tony's created in the lab), it will be able to dull some sensation, if not all, or maybe even knock them out. If it works, a constant drip of the intravenous numbing fluid would be able to dull, if not completely hinder, the nerve sensations in his body for the duration of the operation. That alleviates some of Bucky, and Steve’s, worries about the procedure… And yet, Barnes still feels an odd, sinking sense of apprehension when he thinks about getting a new limb attachment.

 

Stark is willing to use the sedative on Bucky during the procedure. The problem is, Bucky isn't sure he wants it. Now, he isn't any kind of masochist (even though he doesn't mind his partners getting a little rough with him, from what he's remembered), but he just isn't sure he can handle being incapacitated like that, to be so far from his own free will once more. Part of him is scared that the loss of his conscious decision making process will mean a loss of control, again. The dark memories of the Winter Soldier which slice into his brain in fractured, jagged slivers at wretched and strange intervals still keep him up and night and on guard to stay himself daily. Perhaps avoiding the risk of losing… _Himself_ , might be worth the pain it will cause. But Bucky's come to realize pain is not a necessity, and he _can_ avoid it. He _wants_ to. Stark tells him he’s not sure even Barnes could withstand this sort of neurological assault, and strongly advises the sedative. Bucky thinks on that for a while afterwards. If the strong amount of pain Stark outlines would be in store causes him to black out, or triggers some sort of stress response in his psyche, he could just as easily lose all maintenance of his mental process and turn into… Something, _someone_ , he isn't any longer. And Steve has assured him that he'll be present the entire time, and that no harm will come to him; he wants to trust that, to trust Steve; Steve has proven time and again that for some crazy reason he will always be there for Bucky. He _knows_ he can trust Steve completely, but how can he be sure Bucky will be safe? He's afraid, so afraid of not being in control of his own body again. What if he gets stuck that way? A sad, hollow thing, forced to live only for the orders it’s given. He doesn’t--He _can’t_ live like that, not again.

 

The very thought sends a haunting shiver crawling down his spine, and beside him, Steve places a consoling hand on Bucky’s knee, his touch light and fingers warm through the fabric of his pants. The pressure and weight of it is steady, grounding, and Bucky reminds himself to take a deep breath and replies to Tony that he’ll think about it. Stark chatters off a response as chipper as one can be for the Iron Man, before signing off, his detached voice disappearing from the room with the push of a button. Then, he and Steve are alone. He looks prominently at Bucky, prompting him to speak if he so wishes, but Barnes looks down at his lap, breaking from his gaze. The imprint of the light reflecting in Steve’s eyes, the blue heightened and dissolved by the brightness at the same time, burning into the fabric of his pants as he stares at his knees. He is silent, his eyes glued to Steve’s fingers curling over his kneecap, his breathing shallow as his unwavering gaze traces the lines of his joints, and the Captain doesn’t push him any further; he understands.

 

That night, the same thoughts are still ping-ponging around in his head. Bucky is still hesitant about the pain reduction at the cost of his consciousness, and almost considers not going through with the thing at all, despite all of Tony and Banner’s work. Steve is already out like a light, his face pressed up against Bucky, nose mashed against his shoulder, his breath ghosting over Bucky’s bare neck. Barnes concentrates on counting every rise and fall of his chest, distant background noise reaching through the tangle of his haphazard fears about the operation. Steve makes a gentle, snuffling sound in his sleep and Bucky suddenly feels his heart _fluttering_ with adoration. Steve cares about him, and he won’t force him into doing anything he does not want to do, a rare quality that endears him to Bucky over all others who would, well… One of the rare qualities, at least. He knows, he’s a stupid sap. But it does make something come to mind. Thinking back to how Steve had shown an extreme aversion to Bucky’s pain when getting the arm removed forces the choice for the former assassin. He can still feel his own grip crushing into Steve’s, their fingers twisted together so tightly they merge into one. Steve’s reassuring smile when Bucky’s eyes would dart up to his own could not mask the pained expression just behind his pupils. Steve was distraught and Bucky’s no fool. He knows it's because Steve is kind, and good, and values him, wants him to be alright. He can’t ever thank Steve for everything he has done, but he’ll get closer to doing it by trying to make sure the Captain sees him suffer as little as possible. He doesn’t want to upset Steve, if he can help it. Steve deserves that much after all he has done for Bucky, and Bucky hates the thought of Steve sitting there again as he suffers. Lucid as he would be, he honestly doesn’t know if he could bear to watch that all over again. If nothing else, that’s reason enough to make Bucky decide on using the sedative.

 

In the morning, Bucky and Steve go downstairs to the common area for breakfast. It’s true that there’s a fully functional and well-stocked kitchen in their suite, but neither of them can cook well and it’s just easier this way. Today, the only other person here is Barton. He offers Steve a friendly salute and gives a nod to Bucky before placing a plate of fried bread and jam in front of them when they sit at the table. “Grenki, or something,” He tells them in a gruff voice, hoarse from sleep. Bucky distantly remembers that Clint had a mission late last night, and that it's still early in the morning. The sun is just beginning to peek over the spires of the tallest buildings, accentuated by the foggy clouds smeared across the sky. They’d scheduled early, both scientists wanting to get the thing over with as soon as possible; Bucky not sure if he could stomach waiting inner anxiousness any longer, and a cold feeling that secretly they thought more time might risk Barnes changing his mind. Clint’s voice cuts through again, yanking Buck back to the present, “Natasha made them for you two. And I think Tony left some power smoothie mixes on  the counter, but I wouldn’t take them if I were you. They turn green when you add water. Probably have something awful in ‘em, like kale or quinoa or whatever.”

 

“I don’t think quinoa’s green,” Steve replies, huffing an amused laugh as he reaches for some of Natasha’s offering, “But thanks.” Bucky’s mouth is already full, and as he swallows he meets Barton’s eyes in some sort of reflection of his appreciation. Barton nods “you're welcome” back at him, having become accustomed to Bucky’s ways of showing gratitude; it is enough.

 

They eat the grenki before heading down to the lab, and it’s good. Once they’re there, the first thing Stark asks is, “Do you want the sedative or not?” in a blunt voice, much too loud for the early hour, still managing to sound detached somehow. He’s practically buzzing with excess energy, and his hands keep flirting around the lab, distantly searching for some unknown last minute necessity. The lab is pretty standard, set off to the side of Tony’s robotics lab, a smaller room equipped with basic medical equipment and a lot of complicated mechanical tools laid out in detailed arrays that seem to be haphazardly organized in a genius sort of way. Bucky can recognize a few from his days down at the docks, or playing apartment handyman when things around their home became just as broke as they were, like a ratchet wrench, a screwdriver, pliers and what looks like a handheld blowtorch. The rest, he either cannot remember, or seem much too foreign and complex to have ever been able to recall. He liked science, sure, but not complex bio-robotics. Tony and Bruce are much more experienced in the field, and hopefully know what all those tools do. He’s even overheard them once or twice before discussing creating Artificial Intelligence and some sort of “new life,” before Pepper’s disapproving glare would cause Bruce to hush him down. Banner’s gaze cuts across the table to Steve, who shrugs one shoulder at the billionaire's actions.

 

The table. It’s standard silver chrome, gurney-type operation table, with a thin white mattress and a small attached head pillow. That’s where they’re going to to do it; where metal will be molded to fit his flesh once more. It's the table where he could lose control, lose Steve, lose trust, lose everything. The brown leather restraints, a last resort he’s sure, are tucked beneath the bedding in an attempt to hide them. Seeing them that way somehow makes him feel more stung than had they been out in the open. Vaguely, the presence of eyes all glued worriedly to his face makes him recall Stark had asked him a question warranting a verbal response.

 

Bucky looks helplessly at Steve, whose own eyes are bright with the optimism he seems to wish he had, and gathers his resolve.

 

“Yes.” He grits out, teeth grinding against each other with a sickeningly rough sound that he knows is louder in his own head. It still sets him on edge. Dr. Banner, who is apparently going to supervise, gives Bucky an encouraging nod, trying to calm him down.

 

Stark nods in response and leads them to the ominous table, seeming to wait with an air of gloating. Bucky must really be losing it, feeling hostility towards a table. Looking closer at the approaching object, he realizes that it's the same one that Tony had removed Bucky’s arm on. All of a sudden, there's a hand in his arm and he stiffens, his head immediately whipping up to shoot cold daggers at a bewildered Stark, who almost Then he wipes down the skin of Bucky’s right wrist with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball before hooking him up to the IV machine, the slim needle sliding through his skin smoothly with a flash of grey. Stark walks away to retrieve his tools once he’s sure everything’s in alright.

 

“We need to get the sedative to have accumulated a little in your body before we start the operation,” Banner explains as Bucky’s tongue begins to feel cold and tingly, “Otherwise, your body might burn through it too quickly if your adrenaline kicks in. Also, for the same reason, we’ve elected to set it to a pretty high dosage. Let us know if it’s too much, or whatever.”

 

“Okay,” Bucky replies, shutting his eyes against the bright lighting which seems to have intensified.

 

Stark returns from the far side of the workshop, carrying what Bucky can only assume is to be his new left arm.

 

“So, this is it.” Tony announces with a cheery tone everyone is pretty sure he’s forcing, “It’ll have more sensitivity than the one you had before, but it’ll function in pretty much the same way. Just _better_.” He says, voice quickening and rising in pitch as he gets excited discussing his own handiwork. Barnes cracks an eyelid open to examine his new appendage. It’s sleek and shiny, much more elegant than the prosthesis he’d been given by the Russians. Or HYDRA. Whoever. Anyway, the arm looks just like all of the models Stark’s shown him during their sessions and it’s comforting. It won’t be anything Bucky isn’t expecting. “You ready to get started?” Stark continues, lowering his voice seriously and eyeing the man expectantly.

 

Steve sets his hand on Bucky’s right shoulder and gives him a gentle, comforting squeeze, which prompts him to speak as he’s tugged back down to earth. “Yeah, yeah. Just put it on.”

 

“Is the sedative working?” Bruce inquires strongly, raising his voice to catch Bucky’s attention. He seems to be drifting off.

 

Bucky shuts his eyes and lets himself just feel around a little. There’s a slight fuzziness at the edges of his consciousness, getting stronger every second. He almost starts to panic at the loss of sensation he’s now noticing, but he can still feel Steve’s hand on him, warmth seeping through the thin material of the shirt he’s got on, and it’s grounding. “Yeah,” He says again, voice small, “It’s fine.”

 

“Right,” Stark chirps, satisfied, beginning to pick up tools and such, “Dr. Banner, we are a go.” Banner gives him a tight smile in reply. Steve’s hand is still on his shoulder, and he wants to ask him to keep it there, but cannot bring himself to say the words. His tongue feels like deadweight, and his teeth would just be clacking together like old bones. Maybe it's a result of the sedative. Or maybe it's just his pathetic fear of driving Rogers away.

 

The two set to work, bustling around, while Steve remains still on the other side of the table. Bucky is definitely noticing the effects sedative a lot more now. He feels a little like he’s floating, and all sensation is soft and warm. It feels good. Stark and Banner’s brisk movements seem almost slow and distorted, like he’s watching them from underwater. Everything seems like it’s glimmering, shiny and blurry. Colors start bleeding into each other, like a painting that's been left out in the rain. Bucky’s head lolls to the right and he stares at Steve. He hears giggling and then realizes it’s coming from himself. It’s just that Steve looks so pretty right now. Bucky’s never seen anything like him, all rosy-skinned and golden-haired. His eyes are so vibrantly blue. He almost seems like he’s glowing. _So pretty,_ Bucky thinks. Steve laughs a little and flushes. Did he say that outloud? He hadn’t meant to.

 

“Yeah, Buck, you did.” Steve tells him, slight amusement cutting through his tone of forced neutrality, voice resonant and vaguely far away, as though Bucky's hearing him through a tunnel. He can’t seem to focus enough on the sound to register that he should feel embarrassed or awkward, or perhaps concerned.

 

“Sorry,” Bucky slurs after a moment of silence, head lolling back against the cushion, “Sorry, Stevie.” Then he frowns, images falling haphazardly into place behind his eyes. There’s a sort of darkness permeating these memories that makes his stomach twist in a sickening way. His fists are flying rapidly through the air and he relaxes as his brain falls into the step of combat, so easily and compliantly even in mere memory, but then he sees flashes of blue, in a swatch of fabric, in the flash of desperate eyes, in deep, thick water, rushing with a raging force. And then there’s red, red invading his vision and he has a vague moment of panic when he realizes its blood, and _Steve’s_ at that, his muscles tensing up again. In the room, Stark clucks his tongue at him and urges him to relax so he can work, but Bucky is lost in the recollection. Steve’s voice is coming back through to him, and he’s hearing a lot of things he hadn’t registered before. They brought him out of it; they brought him back. And then he’s promising things, and it’s his turn to fall and Bucky can’t think of anything to do but go after him… But he isn’t good enough to stay, so he trails him down the shoreline and then walks within the water to cover his footprints. All that hit him suddenly; he isn’t quite lucid enough to understand, but feels something has to be said, and he adds slowly,

 

“Sorry I punched you. On the helicarrier. That wasn’t…” He struggles to find the words, with a tiny groan of frustration. It is coming out wrong, but he does not know what else to say, “That wasn’t good.”

 

Steve gives him a soft smile, eyes crinkling at the corners, and it’s the most dazzling thing Bucky’s ever seen. “It’s alright, we’ve been over this. I forgive you.” He states assuredly, though a bit of worry creeps into his tone. Bucky doesn’t catch it, his glossy eyes swiveling up to the ceiling and then back on Steve.

 

“Sorry,” Bucky repeats, squeezing his eyes shut as though hurt. Steve panics for a moment, that despite this display, the sedative has failed. Then Bucky’s eyes slide open once again and he’s even more far away. Before his eyes, there is a hand reaching out, fingers twisting almost gratefully around the fat blue neck of a glass bottle, a slick scrape against the wood of the heavy weight as it leaves the shelf. He sees feet moving down a rain slick sidewalk at night, the red neon light of the drugstore blazing back against his eyes…Realizes they are his feet, and he attempts to walk as casually as he can muster for about a block before he starts to run as fast as his legs will take him, breath caught in his throat. He’s high on the adrenaline of it all, heart in his throat and the beat of the pulse singing against his eardrum. He’s I'm such a rush, his brain can't even comprehend the feeling of his legs moving; his distanced from his surroundings… Like he is floating, flying through the downpour. The sound of cars shuffling by at this hour in the city serves to mask his footsteps as they splash down and he thinks to clutch the bundle in his coat a little bit closer, the slosh of liquid within resoundingly new compared to the empty silence of his pockets, devoid of the jingle of change.. Devoid of any money, really, at all. Steve’s voice calling out his name draws him out of it, his memories, as it always does and his tone warrants a response. He rambles on, sounding utterly remorseful and distraught. _Steve won’t love him anymore… Steve will leave; Steve might stay… Steve’s too good_ ,

 

“‘m sorry, Stevie. I--I stole that medicine when you got a fever real bad that one year, you ‘member? I told ya I payed for it, but I didn’t. Couldn’t. But I didn’t want you to die. I had to. You-y’understand? I had to do it. I lied to you. Sorry, I’m sorry, Stevie, sorry.”

 

That’s new. At least, Steve hadn't known that before. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and his mouth falls open a little bit. He hadn’t been expecting that confession. He wonders if he should be bothered by the fact that Bucky seems more apologetic about lying to him than committing theft in the first place.

 

“It’s fine, Bucky.” He says hurriedly, making a note to talk about it once his friend is sober again. Stark flashes him a weird look, but he and Banner are too focused on the task at hand to do anymore than that. Steve is relieved they don’t push it, or push Bucky. He is growing increasingly uncertain how the man would respond to any sort of inquiry from the men working on him, strangers he doesn't know very well. Steve’s chest feels cold when he wonders if Bucky would know them well enough  to remember in this state, or would intercept any comments made as a verbal assault and… He isn't sure what could happen, so he pushes the thought from his mind and tries to focus on his friend’s movements.

 

“Steve… Stevie.” Bucky’s right hand drifts up to where Steve’s is still set on his shoulder, fingers running down the crease between his thumb and his palm. His voice is soft, calm even, but behind his eyes there is a wild sort of panic behind their glassy sheen, something akin to desperate terror, the kind that makes you feel sick in your throat and your lungs hurt badly. Steve wants to raise his hand and shut Barnes’ eyes, let him sleep in peace… Wants to use his thumb to smooth the crease between his eyebrows so sharply define he could trace it with a pencil and paper in mere strokes from a good distance.

 

“You’re so good… You’re good to everyone. Even me. And I don’t… I don’t even deserve it, I--” He murmurs, looking almost surprised that Steve has chosen to stay for him of all people, even after these rambling confessions he is spurting out while the sedative rushes in his bloodstream. The pad of his finger brushing over Steve’s skin is distracting, and perhaps it is just wishful thinking, but from the reverence in Barnes’ hushed tones, and the sort of look in his eyes… Well, Steve would almost want to call it _besotted_. But he knows that isn’t right, and it’s just that everything going on right now has thrown him off guard, and he is filled with worry for Bucky, and his friend is high on some strange chemical cocktail Stark has filled him with and it’s nothing like that. It couldn’t, wouldn’t, be like that… Steve would know, wouldn’t he?

 

“Sorry to interrupt the tender moment,” Tony interjects, completely interrupting with a sound of fearful protest, “But… Is he going to start crying? He looks like he’s going to start crying. And I have a strict ‘no crying’ policy in my workshop. This isn’t a drunk sleepover confessions session.” He tosses out, and Steve feels a flare of annoyed anger light inside of him. His gaze darts heatedly over to Stark’s, before they are both startled out of it by the patient’s sudden interjection, Bucky’s hand starting to trail down Steve’s bicep with a featherlight touch.

 

“No crying,” Bucky repeats, dazedly, seeming to think on the disjointed, slow syllables before the make themselves into comprehensible words within his mind. “No crying.” Then his slack expression morphs into a slight frown. “‘The Winter Soldier does _not_ cry.’” He mumbles darkly, entire body seizing up, “‘The Winter Soldier does not feel. The Winter Soldier does not cry.’”

 

Steve squeezes the brunet’s shoulder a little, eyes flitting over his friend’s body, whose posture is dangerously resembling a different side of him entirely, “You still with me, Bucky?” He attempts, stepping closer and leaning into Bucky’s face to check his eyes for signs of coherency.

 

Hazy ice-blue eyes slide over to meet his own again viciously, before he squints them into focus and everything relaxes once again. A lazy smile spreads across Bucky’s face. His mind is there, he’s still _here_ , but Steve does not feel anymore reassured by this sudden change in countenance and the few seconds it seemed to take for his friend to recognize him. And then, his behavior gets even stranger as his good hand grabs at his waist harshly, hard enough to bruise a normal man.

 

“Steve!” He exclaims, as if seeing him for the first time, still jumbling the syllables together raggedly, “Steve, _you’re_ here! What are you doing here?” His voice is high and giddy, astonished.

 

Steve frowns at the two men bustling about across the table from him. “Do you think maybe you set the dosage a little _too_ high?” He snaps, turning toward them awkwardly in Bucky’s death-grip on his side and waving his hand at the man on the table who currently seems to have lost all self-control.

 

Banner shrugs in response, though his skilled mask can’t hide the concern that flits across his face for a second, “We didn’t even know if it would work at all. It’s better he’s a little loopy than in excruciating pain, right?” He attempts weakly, lifting one hand in a gesture reaching out to Steve; signifying, _what can you do?_

 

Steve tries his hardest to quell his frustration and not glare at him. The big, green guy would in no way help their situation, but right now, Bucky’s losing it, and Steve isn’t sure if he can handle seeing that all over again, not when things have started getting minutely better. Maybe it was too much to ask for it to work out; for Bucky to be safe. But after seventy odd years, Steve is tired of asking for what he wants and waiting around to never get it. He needs Bucky, and hell, a small part of himself is daring to whisper that he even deserves him; and more importantly, Bucky deserves to be back… To be in control again. Not like this, utterly gone and not himself, whoever that is now. Its everything he didn’t want to happen in this operation today save turning back into the Winter Soldier. Steve can't help but feel like he’s betrayed Bucky’s trust, let him down. After all, he did talk his friend into using the serum, though at the time he honestly thought it would be best. He can only sit back and watch now as the two members of his team continue the process and hope that when it is over, Bucky returns to who he was before, and not stuck in this state of half-lucidness.

 

Steve wants to say, _I think this constitutes as more than ‘a little loopy,’_ but instead, he turns his attention back to Bucky, trying not to get upset. These men are only trying to help someone they don’t trust for him. “You okay?” he asks, the most important thing to him being getting this over with with as little negative effects to his friend as possible.

 

“I’m--yeah… I’m goooood.” Bucky sighs contentedly, sliding their palms together, “I’m _really_ good. How did you get here, Steve? I--I lost you and then I… Bad things happened… They took me from you…” He whines panickedly, voice sounding frightened and hyper like a child’s. His expression has slid back into a dazed frown, but then it suddenly morphs into a bright smile, “But now you’re here. And it’s _good_ . I’m good, because you’re here, and _you’re_ good. I missed you, Stevie… When you were gone, but now I… I found you. And I don’t have to miss you anymore, because you’re here.” Hr

 

Steve feels like he’s taken a cold knife, right to the heart. “That’s right, Buck.” He chokes out, his fingers lacing in between Barnes’. He might get a strange look from Stark and some sort of interrogation later, but he doesn’t care. He _needs_ Barnes to know that he’s there for him, and quite honestly every bit to ensure himself that his friend is still with him as well. Within his own, the uneven nails scratching lightly against his skin, Bucky’s hand is freezing.

 

“You’re… You’re _here,_ right? I’m not--I’m not imagining you again? You’re really here this time?” Bucky’s giving him the most absolutely miserable face, and that knife in his heart is definitely being twisted around right now. The ‘again’ is what really gets him, because it implies that there was a time (or times) when Bucky had hallucinated Steve’s presence, when he wasn’t actually there to comfort him.

 

“No, no, I’m here, Bucky. I promise I’m here.” He says, desperate to assure him, wanting to pull him off of the table and into his arms. He keeps his free fist clenched at his sides so hard the nails bite into his palms. He won't cause a scene here, not in front of these men Bucky does not yet trust. He can't tell how his friend would respond, and any chance of jeopardizing his safety, or those of anyone else in this tower, is not an option. He won’t do that to them, not if he can help it. His open hand uncoils itself and lifts lifts to cup his shoulder, which is not as warm as it should be. Steve worries Buck’s circulation is too low, and hopes they finish soon.

 

“You’re not gonna…” Barnes. lower lip is trembling, and he seems frightened to even ask in a whisper, “You’re not gonna leave?”

 

Steve grips Bucky’s shoulder tighter, biting his own lip hard as he tries to control himself. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, I swear. End of the line, right? I meant it.”

 

Bucky turns his head, nuzzling his cheek against Steve’s hand, his mouth warm where it brushes against the Captain’s knuckles. “Good. Good, ‘cause I--” He cuts off, and his eyes snap open, even though they’re still fogged over. “No,” he says surely, as if to reprimand himself, “Not that. Can’t say that. Sorry, Steve. It would be bad, if I said that.”

 

“It’’s okay, Buck.” Steve assures him again. His voice sounds high even to his own ears, “You’re fine, I promise.”

 

Bucky hums and settles his head against the hand on his shoulder, closing his eyes. There’s a little silence that stretches out between the two of them, but Bucky looks so at peace, Steve doesn’t want to disturb it. He’s completely caught off guard by the rapid changes and… _Whatever,_ is going on within Buck right now. Besides, the sound of Stark and Banner shuffling about next to them fills in the gaps anyway.

 

“Stage 1 calibration complete.” Tony eventually announces, “Now it’s time to actually fit the damn thing on him.” Then they’re setting it next to Bucky on the table while Stark maneuvers around to get a better angle for the actual attachment. “That feel alright, Barnes?” he asks, once he’s started fiddling around with it once more.

 

Bucky makes a curious noise, and doesn’t open his eyes or lift his head, but he responds, “Tickles…”

 

“Well, that’s good enough for me.” Stark nods and continues with the fiddling.

 

“Let us know if anything starts to hurt,” Bruce adds from his place against the tool counter, his eyes wide in almost panic at his concern for the soldier.

 

Bucky hums a little more, a low sound that vibrates, apparently considering. “The Winter Soldier does not feel pain.” He eventually mumbles out lazily, the words tumbling off his tongue as naturally as his own name should. Steve’s heart is suddenly seized in a cold grip, praying the rapid thudding of his pulse within his ears just made him mishear that.

 

Banner looks even _more_ concerned at that, turning to meet his eyes and protest sternly, “Um, you really do need to tell us if it hurts…”

 

“No… Testing me.” Bucky slurs stubbornly, shaking his head back and forth as though in disbelief as to why no one else in the room understands that. A bit of hair falls into his eyes, and not knowing what else to do, Steve’s fingers move briefly to brush it away when Barnes begins speaking again, “Я буду хорошо. Я не буду кричать.”

 

Stark and Banner look helplessly at each other. Banner frowns pointedly at him and Stark responds with a bewildered shrug. “What did he say?” Stark asks impatiently after a long pause, eyebrows raising as he prods Steve to translate. Without Natasha, he’s the best they’re going to get.

 

Steve grimaces uncomfortably, his free hand tightening into a strained fist before he covers Bucky’s, which has somehow landed on top of his other one. Natasha had sent him a Russian dictionary when he’d been searching for Bucky, and he’d taken the hint and done his best to learn the language. He struggles to form the words, feeling sickened even as he says them. “He said… He’ll be good. He won’t… He won’t cry.” Both doctors go still and silent for a moment, before Tony suddenly blurts something out desperately, looking incredibly out of place and inept to handle this.

 

“Look, um, Sergeant Barnes. You’re safe, okay? We’re not HYDRA, we’re not the Russians. See? English. This isn’t a test. We just want to help you.” Stark attempts, waving whatever tool is in hand around as he gestures across the lab.

 

“Sergeant…” Bucky’s repeating dazedly, seemingly unable to hear Stark, “3…” He stops with a disgruntled moan, a small frown twisting across his mouth as he is apparently unable to remember the rest. “3255…”

 

The last time Steve heard those numbers slurred likes this, the last time he saw Bucky’s eyes glazed over the way they are now was on that table in Schmidt’s HYDRA plant. The first time he’d been sure that he’d lost Bucky forever.

 

“Bucky, Bucky,” He begs, grip tightening on Bucky’s hand as the entire room begins to become sway in his panic, “Stop, please. It’s okay, you're okay.” He can’t relive this again. He sees it too many times in his nightmares as it is.

 

He whips around to face Stark with a glare, eyes wild and bright in hysteria and anger. “Get the sedative out of him!” He demands, jaw set and teeth grinding together.

 

Banner gives him an apologetic look, cutting in as he continues to pass tools to the other scientist. “We’re not done attaching the arm. He might burn through what’s left before we finish.”

 

“He’ll be okay,” Steve protests in a weak voice to assure them, and also himself. Bucky is going to be fine, he has to be, because Steve can’t bear this anymore. Bucky’s really starting to worry him… Steve doesn’t know how to help him and that makes him feel like he’s failed the man. Bucky trusted him, was worried something like this would happen and Steve let him down. He has to fix this, to make Bucky return to himself. It’s like watching him lose the man all over again, and his stomach feels on fire with cold dread. , “Please, just… I can’t see him like this. He doesn’t even know where he is, or who I-- _we_ are.”

 

Stark looks up from where he’s tinkering with Bucky’s shoulder socket, and glares at Steve incredulously. “No. Sorry, you don’t get to make that decision, Rogers. We’re wiring this thing into his _nervous system_ right now, and if you didn’t realize this, anything that goes wrong could potentially paralyze him. Or worse, _kill_ him. I’m not taking the risk of inflicting unnecessary pain upon him that might end with me making a catastrophic slip-up.” He asserts, his voice harsh and his eyes narrowing.

 

“And what would you have done if he hadn’t wanted the sedative in the first place?” Steve retorts, eyes steely with resolve as he lifts his chin in defiance. Behind them, Bruce glances uncomfortably over to Barnes, still lost in his murmuring as his thumb traces the inside of Steve’s wrist.

 

“Well, Cap, you’re a very persuasive man. Besides, I figured his incessant need to please you and pay heed to your every whim would do the trick to begin with. And look! It did.” There’s a trace of malice in Tony’s voice, but then his glare softens out and he gives a small sigh. “Look, Steve… I’m not trying to be a dick--no, really!” he protests at Steve’s snort of disbelief, “But you of all people know best out of anyone what Barnes has been through. When someone tortures you and just forces you to do what they want like that…” Suddenly, Steve remembers reading about how Tony had been taken hostage in Afghanistan years ago, and he feels like an insensitive fool. Bucky made the choice to use the sedative, and Steve would feel terrible if going against that decision hurt their relationship after it caused Bucky unnecessary physical pain. Bucky might not trust him again, and that’s something Steve refuses to let happen. “Right now, you need to let your friend at least _feel_ like he’s the one in control of his own body…”

 

Steve’s shoulders slump, defeated, as he realizes that Tony has a good point. He needs to let them finish the procedure using the sedative to keep Bucky under. Steve’s gotten good at looking after him, he can handle a little weirdness if it means Barnes won’t be betrayed and in excruciating pain. “Okay. I get it. You’re right.”

 

Bruce makes a low whistle in the back of his throat, shaking his head as he looks to the floor, “Tony, you’re quite the manipulator…” His shoulders have lost all tension, and he does not seem to be fearful of a war between his two teammates and friends. He’s back in control too.

 

Stark apparently doesn’t notice Banner’s comment. There’s a dark gleefulness in his expression. “I’m sorry, Cap, could you say that again? I’m _right?_ I’ve gotta get that on record. Jarvis, did you get that on record?”

 

“Of course, sir.” Jarvis responds immediately, and Tony gets back to work wiring in the chords to muscle.

 

Steve doesn’t speak for the remainder of the operation. Bucky’s pretty much non-verbal as well, since he’s so out of it, going still with his head lolled back, cheek pressing against the Captain’s shoulder. He responds to Stark’s and Banner’s questions with slurred, only vaguely decipherable answers. It takes a while, but they finally finish attaching the arm to Bucky’s shoulder, and now, the only thing left to do is test it and adjust the calibration on the sensors as necessary. Steve can’t help the very audible sigh of relief that escapes him, the lines of worry smoothing away as his face sags slightly. It’s almost over.

 

“We’re going to unhook him from the machine now.” Banner tells Steve over his shoulder, checking his face for approval, “We need him to be lucid when he tests it out.”

 

Steve exhales slowly, lifting his eyes to Doctor Banner’s gratefully. “But the… The hard part is done, right?”

 

Bruce nods, offering him an empathetic smile, “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

 

“It’s… It’s fine. I told him I’d be here. I meant it.” Steve replies, already distracted when Bucky stirs upon Stark’s approach, grabbing his shiny new StarkTech arm gently.

 

Steve sucks in another worried breath, the sudden thought occurring to him that Bucky might instinctively hurt him. Instead, he immediately goes slack, his face rigid as he drops his hand from Steve and folds it across his stomach in a fist, allowing Tony to hold the metal appendage in his fingers. He spits out something in Russian that sounds to the Captain’s untrained ears like, “I’m ready,” and Steve is hit with shock as he realizes why the entire scene appeared so wrong to him. Bucky looks as though he’s _preparing_ for something, well, bad… And Steve knows that this response is entirely worse than the one expected. All he wants is for this to be done so that he may take his best friend back where he belongs, at home, away from this safe but all too familiar atmosphere.

 

Stark removes the needle from Bucky’s arm and sticks a bandaid over the mark it leaves. In all fairness, Bucky does come down from the medically-induced high as quickly as he’d fallen into it, and in retrospect, Steve sees why it would’ve been an awful idea to remove the sedative halfway through the procedure. Either way, Stark and Banner ask him to describe the sensations in the arm and perform a series of movements that get progressively more complicated. The prosthetic functions beautifully and they’re all clear to go.

 

Bucky apparently doesn’t remember anything past a minute or two after the sedative was administered. That means he doesn’t remember Steve getting hysterical, which Steve appreciates. But that also means he doesn’t remember how weirdly affectionate he’d been, and if Bucky doesn’t remember, Steve doesn’t want to confuse him or confront him for doing something he hadn’t meant to. It’s just that for a moment, Steve had let himself think for the first time, that maybe Bucky _did_ harbor some feelings for him that were more than just friendly. But now he’ll never know, he supposes. It’s stupid, really. He’s known Bucky for so long now that he’s pretty sure he would’ve noticed anything like that long before. If anything, it had probably just been the sedative talking.

 

For so long, he’d never allowed himself to think of the possibility that Bucky could be like _that_ , like _him_ , much less think about Steve in that way. But he’d messed up in his moment of weakness, let down his guard. He’d let himself consciously think about the possibility… And it wasn’t even a real possibility, Steve knew that. He wasn’t _that_ naive and optimistic. But the seed has been planted, and now he can’t stop thinking about it. The little “what-ifs” float around in his head, and he can’t stop them. Can’t stop himself from looking at Bucky and thinking _maybe, he could love me back…_ It doesn’t matter, though. His baseless hopes can’t change anything.

  


  * * *

 

Once they return to their rooms in the Tower, Bucky can tell something is wrong with Steve. His head feels fuzzy, and it’s hard to stand up for more than a few moments. He cannot remember anything that happened between the procedure beginning, and the calibration of his arm, so he chalks it up to just basic worry over his well-being after such an ordeal. He doesn’t have it in him to think any deeper on his friend’s strangeness at the moment, the only thing he wants to be doing is lying down. He tells Steve so and the man nods in understand, telling him to of course go on, though he’s chewing harshly on his bottom lip, his eyes never leaving Bucky’s. Shutting himself in the bedroom and crawling beneath the covers, he’s vaguely upset that Steve had not followed, even though he doesn’t know if he really wants company after this. In the reflection of the bathroom mirror, the arm is glaringly bright from its spot on the bed, chromed edges peeking out from beneath the sheet. Bucky lifts it almost self consciously, marveling at the thing attached to his body. It’s sleeker and moves more smoothly than his old one, and is lighter. It feels less like a weapon and more like a part of his body, which he knows should be reassuring, though he has a fleeting feeling of apprehension after years of combat. He flexes it around a while, inspecting the mechanics before hastily shoving it beneath the pillow, his head on top of the cushion. He can’t look at it too long or the gravity of his freedom will hit him and cause old memories to resurface that he never wants to think about again. He’s almost glad Steve isn’t here to see that, though he does wish the man were laying beside him, out of it. Steve always has this underlying tiredness about him that most people aren’t critical enough to pick up on.

 

Bucky figures between the two of them, they have enough sleep problems to make a clinical insomniac blanch. After several months of therapy and trying to deliberately shut his own brain up for much of his life, he can get to sleep just fine, no problems there. It’s staying asleep that he has problems with. His time as the the Winter Soldier has conditioned him to become the lightest of sleepers, and he wakes up at the smallest noise. But at least he’s got it better than Steve, he thinks. It takes Steve at least an hour and a half to fall asleep, forty five minutes at best. But when Steve’s out, he’s _out._ Like a log. Ain’t nothin’ on God’s green earth that can wake that man up, short of an alarm at full volume, regardless of his enhanced hearing. When that fails, being violently shaken by a supersoldier with a metal arm generally does the trick. Having the cat helps. Having each other helps too. Bucky knows well enough that he has pleasant dreams a fair amount of the time, and Steve must too. But the nightmares haven’t stopped though. Not for either of them. As he feels the pull of sleep at his foggy consciousness, he succumbs, knowing there will be time to think later. For now, he wants to sleep off the effects of the sedative, and not have any unpleasant memories crawling their way back up to the surface.

 

_Light filters into the Soldier’s consciousness, tinted pink by his closed lids. He blinks slowly, realizing that there’s no noise, which is… Wrong… New York is never silent, there’s a reason it’s called the city that never sleeps. He sits up and pushes the covers away from his legs. There’s no one in the bed next to him, and that too feels wrong. The light that initially woken him up is growing brighter. He can’t figure out where it’s coming from, there are no windows in this room, but the light’s coming in from all around. It gets brighter and brighter until all he can see is white. Then it fades, even more swiftly than it appeared._

_He’s in another bed, this one rickety and annoyingly familiar. The atmosphere seems too thick, pressure bearing down on him from all sides. His vision is warped and distorted, and everything looks like it's outlined sharply, brightness leaking through the shadows. The Soldier knows this place, he’s sure of it. Blond hair tickles his nose and he looks down. A small, warm figure is lying pressed against him. His left arm is wrapped around the body’s neck and the body shifts position, legs tangled with his own, their knees knocking together as the sheet slips off of the smaller man's form. Is this a target trying to escape? The Soldier can think of no other explanation. He orders his fingers to clench and crush and kill, but for some reason, they won’t obey. His gaze lowers more until his arm comes into view and he realizes with a jolt that his hand is not made of metal. He tries to wrench it away from the twisting body in shock, but the small blond makes a plaintive noise and raises his own hands to pull it back._ _  
_

_“Bucky…” The man moans, eyelids fluttering in his sleep. Is he speaking as he dreams? the Soldier wonders curiously, thoughts calculating. “Please… I need you.” He sighs, lips murmuring the words in a barely lucid slur, smothered in skin as he buries his face desperate into the Soldier's side. Everywhere is mouth touches goes numb and warm, and the assassin’s thought process stutters. Something blooms in the Soldier’s--no, Bucky’s--chest. He is needed. He craves this. The blond shifts his hips, slotting against Bucky's exposed thigh, and he feels a jolt like cool, silver lightning run through his core. Has he ever experienced this before? It is… amazing. He is… Startled? Excited? Or… More? He’s not sure. He can’t remember the last time he felt something like this._   


_His arm comes back to circle around the other man’s neck again. “It’s okay,” He tells him, voice soft and gentle, without knowing where the words are coming from, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Stevie.” Stevie…? Steve? Is this…? There’s no way, it can’t be, and he says as much, words tripping over his tongue before he can realize he's even spoken, breaking the silence of the thrumming night. The blond's breathing falters, speeding up from its slow drawl to its regular pace as his eyes snap open, a piercing sword so blue it's almost white, and Bucky almost whines, he wants that feeling to last, but now it’s rapidly fading.The small man turns his head and stares right at Bucky, and there’s no mistaking it, it’s Steve’s face._

 

_“Can’t be…” Bucky murmurs again, voice cracking. Something about this feels wrong, like they shouldn’t be doing this. No matter how badly he wants it, wants more, Bucky’s mind is telling him that it can never be._

 

_“Why not?” Steve asks sharply, sitting up. Gone is the peaceful allure of him being lost to a childlike sleep. Now he is all hard edges and fuming anger. Bucky's vision goes black around the edges in fear and his biting words. “You fell and I fell with you, you selfish bastard. You should’ve known, I’m stuck to you, you can’t go anywhere without forcing me to follow too. You were the one that brought me here, to the future, Buck! Is it everything you ever wanted? You’ve got me all to yourself, everyone else I actually cared about is gone now. Selfish. The life I could have had is gone, wasted in this life with you. I'm stuck here, and you can't even confront how you feel. Wake. Up. Barnes. I don't have forever!” He groans, the bite in his words rocking Bucky to the core and rooting him to the spot._

 

_“I’m… I’m sorry, Steve,” He pleads, voice cracking in the back of his throat, desperate explanations rising up from the cold pit in his gut like bile, tasting like bitter excuses in his stammering lips, “I didn’t mean for this--I only… I was trying to save you, I only ever wanted to protect you Steve… That was my job, it still is, I-,”_

 

_“And instead, you just turned us both into monsters.” Steve spits venomously, eyes hardening with a chill fury that cuts into Bucky's heart, guilt rising in his tight throat. He leaps out the bed in mere seconds, dragging Bucky with him, surprisingly strong. Then he’s pushing Bucky further and further back, and just before his back’s about to hit the wall, their eyes met.Bucky’s heart is pounding in his ears and his chest heaving, though everything feels like moving through liquid,or slow motion. Steve’s are so wide and mean they look completely black and glitter like hard, brittle ice. Steve opens his mouth carefully, like a predator going in to kill and trills, voice hushed and menacingly gleeful, “Are you still afraid of falling?”_

 

Before Bucky can even form an answer, Steve’s given him a forceful shove and he really is falling, wind rushing around him and biting at his skin.

 

He wakes up with a scream. He’s momentarily disoriented as the light coming through from behind the skyline is no longer present and for a few seconds, he can’t see a thing. The alarm clock to his right reads 3:57 AM.

 

Steve, who has apparently joined him at some point in the night, sits up rapidly, pushing himself up on one shoulder as he rubs at his bleary eyes. “Bucky?” He asks, concern evident in his tone.

 

“Go to sleep,” He replies, voice shaky, “I just need some water.” His mind is racing. He doesn't believe the dream he just tore himself awake from. Obviously he's terrified, but not only over the feeling of guilt for their fates, so similar and intertwined. Heart pounding in his ears, head being plagued by a stabbing ache, his wide eyes dart around the dark bedroom, hoping for something to focus on.

 

He can't even comprehend the other half of the dream. Panic seizes him in a harsh grip, worry crashing over him like a wave and scrabbling at his throat. His breath quickens in accordance to the realization that his subconscious showed him prior desire for the man beside him, watching him with anxious eyes. Not only that, but implied he wasn't acting on it because of the period related dangers...but now, it was a whole different world. Even so, he can't say a thing. Who know what Steve would think...or do. He can't lose Steve. The man is all he has left, in his dream the smaller him said it himself-they have no one else. This life is all there is and they aren't ready to go it alone.

 

“You sure?” Steve frowns. He doesn’t sound convinced at all, and Bucky curses the fact that Steve has always known him better than anyone.

 

Bucky nods but he can’t look Steve in the eye, not now, “Just like any other night.” He hesitates for a second before laying back down and turning so his back is to the Captain.

 

His voice sounds harsh to his own ears and he feels bad. Steve doesn’t deserve this, but he can’t help it. Hurting his feelings is hardly a new occurrence, and its far better than Steve taking one look at his shell shocked face and figuring out the truth… Or at least figuring out that something is wrong, and forcing the answers out of him. He can still feel the warmth of little dream Steve against his side, and shudders. The next minute, he can hear the lilting, haunting whisper as he plummets into an abyss of nothingness, and any emotion but terror is wiped clean from his mind. He scrunches his eyes shut against it and hopes to drop back to sleep.

 

Apparently, Steve’s too tired to really fight about it, because he yawns groggily and inches back down onto his pillow. “Mm’kay… ‘Night, Buck.” He responds slowly, leaving room open for Bucky to change his mind and tell him about it. That’s one of the many good things about Steve, he never pushes him. He doesn’t tell Steve that he’s not planning on sleeping for the rest of the night. He’s already taken enough from him, no need to worry him more.

 

* * *

The next morning, Steve steps slowly into the living room and notices that Bucky is huddled up on the couch.He halts in his steps, relieved at least to have found the man. After last night, the empty bed he’d woken up in had scared him enough to consider that Barnes had run off. He runs a hand through his messy hair hesitantly before clearing his throat to break the silence, even though they both know that with his enhanced hearing and years as an agent he’d heard Steve the moment he’d gotten up and set one foot onto the floor, and woken up if he’d slept at all.

 

“Hey,” He tries, “Everything okay? You didn’t come back to bed last night.” Then he cringes, realizing how it sounds. Even Bucky has an unimpressed look on his face, though he isn’t really looking at Steve as he shifts on his side so that he’s facing the doorway where Steve is positioned. “Not like that, just--Look, I just want to make sure you’re okay…” Steve begins, before Bucky cuts him off with a tired reassurance.

“I’m peachy, Steve. Already told you last night.” Bucky deadpans, his flat tone doing almost nothing to hide what they both know is a brush-off excuse. He just wants Steve to agree and let him be. He doesn’t feel like revealing the truths his dream had shown him to this man. He can’t betray the secret of how much he actually cares, and even worse… If the nightmare held elements of reality, which his dreams often do, Steve’s confirmation of whatever had happened that night could upset everything they have _now_. Or worse, it had been conjured by his mind and the desires it alluded to could drive Steve further away. No, he has to play it off as though he’s just in one of his moods and it will be alright.

 

To his surprise, Steve talks back, and with a firm shake of his head, he already sounds disappointed. “No. No, Bucky… Not this time. You don’t get to sit there and tell me it’s nothing when I clearly know something is bothering you. I wouldn’t make you do anything you did not want to do… But you could’ve at least been honest and just let me know if something was wrong. You know, I have a responsibility to look after you, and make sure we’re all safe..beyond that, I’m your _friend_ . Don’t you _get_ that I care about you?” He asks incredulously, his eyes open and his voice broken.

 

Bucky immediately feels a pang of guilt deep in his gut. Steve’s hurt, he realizes, and all his fears about not telling him were stupid. Steve respects his boundaries… And never pressures him into anything. He tries to reply with something that will fix this, but Steve waves him off.

 

“Forget it, I’ll leave you alone… I’m going to go out for a little bit.” He says, and his jacket in hand, he heads out the door before Bucky can even think to get up and stop him.

 

In his anger, he lets out a disgruntled groan, echoing across the walls as it turns into a furious cry. His new arm flexes and he’s struck with the sudden urge to hit everything. He’s been a fool and now Steve’s leaving for who knows how long. Sooner or later, the man is going to get tired of letting him use being some sort of wounded soldier as an excuse. He can’t help it of course, but seeming to constantly always act the wrong way and putting their relationship in jeopardy gets frustrating. What if Steve returns and decides he’s through handling Bucky’s shit and tells him to go? He knows the man promises never to do that to him, but the hurt reflected back at Barnes in Steve’s pure blue eyes was almost too much to bear. His pained expression appeared to be enough to drive him into changing his mind, and even it it wasn’t, it was certainly enough to change Bucky’s into spilling his soul out to the man about how much he truly means to him. And then he would have been leaving anyhow, because the minute that escapes and upsets the balance of all that they have together, he won’t be around long.

 

He’s quiet for a few moments as he paces the room with his fists balled up and panting as he tries desperately not to ransack the entire place in his desire it like he just wrecked his friendship with Steve. Suddenly, the door slams back open and Steve’s there, meeting his wild eyes with ones that are wide and impulsive as he rushes forward and captures the man in a strong embrace, pulling him against his chest and wrapping his arms around Bucky’s neck, practically crushing him in the process. Bucky immediately stiffens on impulse and in shock, unable to even believe what is happening. Steve smells like sleep and adrenaline, one arm in the jacket he’d haphazardly grabbed on his way out the door, and the other sleeve dangling, pathetic and abandoned, at his side. After a moment he relaxes halfway into the Captain’s arms, choking out a muffled,

 

“Steve, what--?”

 

“Shh.” He shushes him, face against Barnes’ neck. “God, Bucky, I’m sorry.” He adds, finally releasing the man, though his arms stay at Bucky’s elbows. “I’m so sorry… I shouldn't have expected you to, and I shouldn't have gotten upset and I definitely shouldn’t have just left you alone… I don’t know why I thought it would be okay to leave you alone like that and I got as far as the hallway outside the door before I realized you were stuck in the apartment by yourself and I’d just made you feel horrible and you’d probably think that I was leaving you or something and, oh God, Bucky I would never do that to you and then I heard screaming and I was worried you’d hurt yourself so I came back and I’m so… Sorry, really.”He exhales in a rushed breath, panicked eyes darting over Bucky’s face to see if he’s alright, if he’s forgiven, if Bucky is going to turn him away.

 

It takes him a moment to really register what he’s saying, and then Bucky is immediately apologizing himself and trying to figure out some sort of way to reassure Steve that he’s never going anywhere, and he forgives him and then he’s pulling him in again and his face is buried into the crook of the Steve’s shoulder and it’s silent except for the sound of his ragged breathing. Steve lets out a slow exhale.

 

“Hey,” he murmurs, his hand moving to rest in Bucky’s hair. “We don’t have to talk about it, okay? I was just scared… But it’s fine. I-I’m here, Buck. You’re safe… It’s me.”

 

Bucky lets out the breath he’s been holding in, and lifts his head to meet Steve’s eyes, his own dark and distant. He mouth doesn’t open, though he wants to say, _Not with me, not when I’m like this… Not when you’re so good to me. Nothing is safe._ He can’t tell Steve, not now. It would risk everything, and he’s convinced now that Steve needs him too, and he won’t break him like that by revealing the truth. Like this, at least he can pretend it’s safe. And Steve, well he’s come to the conclusion that maybe Steve can never know.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I want to live where soul meets body
> 
> And let the sun wrap its arms around me
> 
> And bathe my skin in water cool and cleansing  
> And feel, feel what its like to be new
> 
> And I cannot guess what we'll discover  
> When we turn the dirt with our palms cupped like shovels  
> But I know our filthy hands can wash one another’s  
> And not one speck will remain..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS IT!!!!!!! HERE'S THE START OF SOMETHING NEW!1!1!!! Hi guys!! I'm so, so sorry that this fic has been MIA for about... a year or more!!!! So much has been going on in our lives, and I've been working a lot on my original writing, trying to get published and make headway on my novel, that I haven't had much time for this fic. But I was really glad I finally went back and finished editing this chapter! Hopefully I'll post more soon!

They don't talk about what happened, how Bucky's nighttime upset had driven Steve from the house and then straight back into his arms. True to Fury’s word, Bucky’s anonymity is indeed gone only a week after coming to the tower. There’s a knock on Steve’s door the next day, and there are government suits standing right outside, all stiff gestures and pleasantries, trying to push past Steve into the apartment, and asking Bucky to come with them. Steve adamantly refuses, blocking the doorway with his torso. Bucky panics, having already gone into high alert the minute he heard them coming up to the door. He’s nervously shifting around the bedroom, fingers twitching as though wishing they held a weapon. Steve hates the look in his eyes, frightened, threatened… Ready to defend himself. 

“Bucky, it's not HYDRA...it's the government. They won't hurt you. You have rights.” Steve tries to tell him over his shoulder unsuccessfully. 

 

The words do nothing to calm either of them down, not after seeing how deep the organization’s influences could go with the fall of SHIELD. Bucky considers sneaking out through the emergency exit and going somewhere to hide… But the building is surrounded by squad cars and what looks suspiciously like a backup SWAT team. Besides, this is the only home he knows, with Steve. Bucky isn't ready to lose him again. 

When Sharon Carter shows up with a shiny new CIA badge and an apologetic look, Steve almost starts throwing punches. Before he can, Stark and Maria Hill appear with an entourage of security personnel. Tony isn't going to allow them to take him off Stark property and put him on trial. They weasel the agents into allowing Bucky to stay in the tower instead of arresting him and putting him in government custody. But there’s no such thing as a free ride.

 

Ultimately, Steve is forced to attend a press conference and reveal the fearsome Winter Soldier is none other than his loyal childhood friend, Bucky Barnes. There is a collective uproar from the audience and the press goes wild. He goes on to explain how Bucky survived the fall in the Alps, was found by the Soviets, turned into a weapon, handed over to Hydra, and subjected to cryogenic stasis, torture, brainwashing, and memory wipes. Some member of the press thinks to stand up during the Q&A and inquire why James didn't make these claims himself, and why he isn't present at all. He informs them that Mr. Barnes is currently trying to piece back together his life in the wake of the crimes he committed as Hydra’s puppet, and didn't show up for fear of facing such accusations and hostility. The reporters are silent or cordial after that. Steve makes a point to inform them that he will stand by his best friend indefinitely. There’s also a moment where he kind of inadvertently threatens the president for trying to take Bucky away, his voice raising, hands quivering on the grip that have nearly crushing the mic protruding from the podium upon which he stands. The black metal and cloth warped beneath his trembling fingers, spurred to clammy life in his rage. Steve never was good at using sense when it came to protecting Bucky. After that, Hill shuts down the press conference pretty quickly, one corner of her mouth downturned as she steps up to Steve’s shoulder, folds the mic away from him, and tugs him out of the room. Her fingers stay firmly wrapped around the crease of his elbow the entire time, even as she turns to bark at the remaining press swarming them in a small mob that no more questions will be asked, Captain Rogers being much too exhausted from the long duration and strain of the trial.

Steve receives a firm talking-to from his PR lady about thinking before you speak in order to avoid accidental acts of treason. Angry citizens surround the building where the conference is held, petitioning for legal recourse in heavy coats and some with signs emblazoned with anti-Cap sentiments, and pro-America tirades. Exiting out the back, the crew present helps transfer Captain America into a waiting car. 

Steve returns home with a weary smile, and immediately finds Bucky, drawing the man against him and holding him tightly in his arms. The only signs of emotion the prevalent tremor to his hardset shoulder blades, and the way his fingers gently pluck at the hair falling into Bucky’s eyes, moving it safely behind his (slightly pinkened) ears. Bucky, though mildly shocked, resists his instincts to pull away and lets Steve hug him for the second time that week. He didn't watch the conference on television, so he can only assume the bullets Rogers took in his place. He's… grateful to Steve, and so maybe he even lifts his arms and squeezes him back, just a little bit. Maybe, but if he did, no one else was there to bear witness. 

 

* * *

 

It’s been a few months since the Triskelion and the Helicarriers fell, taking SHIELD and Hydra with them. It’s undoubtedly the longest consecutive amount of time Bucky’s ever been off the ice, and the memories are now flooding back, more quickly and more chaotically than ever. As he’s started remembering more, he has “episodes” as Steve has begun to call them. They don’t last long, but  _ oh God _ , they’re frightening. They terrify him. Bucky’s brain gets all messed up for the duration of them, often because of something stupid and irrelevant that ends up triggering him. He flashes back to when he was Hydra’s puppet, and sometimes, the only words he can find are in Russian. He often has trouble remembering his name, or even worse, Steve’s. He’s even attacked Steve a handful of times. Those are the worst ones. 

 

Steve always gets to him to calm him down, help him remember before he does any real damage, and besides, he’s still too weak, and now he knows he could never really hurt Steve again, no matter what state of mind he’s in, especially after the helicarriers. But even when he’s being the Asset, it terrifies him... Even when he shouldn’t be able to feel, he's so lost and confused and doesn't understand what to do with himself, or Steve. A thousand possibilities run through his head, because, hell, this is a different world than the one he grew up in, and there are opportunities that he’s never had before, but he’s also considering whether or not he should just get the hell out of it all together because he's not sure  _ how _ different he'd like it to be. It’s harder when Steve isn’t around (because a lot of the time, he isn’t), but Bucky manages. It helps, having Myshka there to ground him, give him something to feel responsibility for. Her constant presence, purring ringing in his ears as he drags a hand, sometimes metal, other times flesh, down her downy back and focuses on the warm she provides. He is gentle with her, and the reminder that he can be gentle at all is often enough, washing over him like a warm wave at the nape of his neck, where sweat pools like tears and shudders tiptoe down his nerves in the dark, to remind him he is not the evil that haunts his brain. His former self will laugh at him, but the scoffing smirk that comes within the depths of smoggy memory cannot mask the rueful sheen to his eyes as he reminds the soldier before him that this is all he can have; asking any more of Steve right now is cruel and impossible, so these moments have to be enough to bring him back to sanity’s crystalline shores.

 

Gradually, everyone in the tower accepts that Captain America is rooming with a former Soviet assassin and HYDRA puppet that tried to kill him (and still occasionally tries, if unintentionally and half-heartedly) and other members of their team at least once, because he also used to be Steve’s best friend, and is now the only direct lifeline he has to his past. They can respect that.

 

Wilson actually comes to be close with Bucky, if not a friend, entertaining in his manner of speaking, and very helpful in his process of remembering. Barton seemed wary of him initially, and during their first official conversation, he had pointed to Natasha, and said with a glare, “Shoot her again, and we’ll see how much you enjoy a little...  _ Acupuncture _ .” He’d looked pointedly at the sheath of arrows lying on the couch in Tony’s penthouse and winked before stalking silently away. Bucky realizes that Hawkeye and Black Widow must have something going on between them, he has gathered that much. Natasha might be the only one other than Steve that Bucky will outwardly consider a friend. She holds no grudge for the time he shot her on the mission, because she was doing her job just as he was, and he was at the disadvantage of not knowing who he was, and she refuses to blame him for instructing her in the Red Room. “Just another puppet in their sick play,” she tells him. She also happens to be the one person who was there for part of it, and it was done to her too, so she understands at least a little, he likes to think. And it doesn’t hurt that she speaks Russian too. However, she can sometimes be a pain, often giving him knowing looks when she catches him staring at Steve and and she will blink expectantly while mouthing rude suggestions in Russian.

 

Steve, of course, is fortunately oblivious to all this, happy Nat has found someone else to toy with, and has stopped bothering him about his love life, or lack thereof. He obviously doesn’t know that the woman is only preoccupied because she is trying to get _Bucky_ to instigate something _with_ _him_.

 

Bucky doubts he’ll ever forget his second conversation with her as a real person. She had been observing Bucky’s mournful pining looks towards Steve for a while, and she clearly remembered Bucky’s accidental confession in the hot tub. So she’d sauntered over in a cloud of black leather, tight clothes, red hair and light perfume. “You,” She said without apprehension like the others, prodding his muscled chest with one long fingernail, “Need to tell him.” And at Bucky’s uncomprehending look she sighed in annoyance. “ _ Clearly _ , you have feelings for him. I can see it every time the man makes a move, you immediately start staring at him. God, it's like he hung the moon or something.” 

 

The brunet huffed. It wasn’t his fault that seeing Nat and Clint secretly in love next to Tony and Pepper made him want the same thing. He knew it was something he’d wanted before, too. He could remember the feeling of longing, the shivers he got whenever Steve touched him first, always passing it off as an aversion to the smaller one’s constantly cold hands. But Fury had a strict policy: no fraternizing amongst agents. He said it was for the safety or the organization; that involvements could split, and cost him the teamwork that was often so valuable to a mission, or lose him an agent, or both, if a lover were to be discovered by the enemy and used as leverage. Now, Barnes did not give a single  _ damn  _ who Fury said he could or could not love, but he had agreed to play by the one-eyed man’s rules and would continue to as long as it meant he wouldn’t be separated from Steve. He did not want to make things difficult for his best friend, who he knew was still very much dedicated to being SHIELD’s hero, and helper. Natasha and Clint were careful themselves, sure, and scorned the rule… But Bucky did not want to hide. 

 

Steve was sunshine, he brought all the warmth around him and held it cupped, golden and radiating, in his palms to bring to Bucky’s parched and cracking lips. As much as Bucky might want to taste the elixir of his love, the sunbeams he offered instead would have to be enough for him to get drunk on. He could not ruin this for Steve; could not bear the thought of being thrust back out into the darkness again because Steve could no longer stand to be around him, not when the blond already offered him so much in his honeyed smile. Bucky would never jeopardize their second chance like that, trying to reach for the moon on the tips of his toes for something just a little bit  _ more. _

 

“Listen, I tried to fix him up with a couple of girls,” Natasha informed him, “but I’m pretty sure he isn’t interested in that because he's not over  _ you _ . I know how much he cares about you, and how your death still hurts him after all these years. Besides,” She leaned in close and whispered to him in Russian, her breath tickling the shell of his ear, “He told me he couldn’t date anyone because they didn’t share his life experiences. And who else do we know that grew up in 20th century Brooklyn, up until 1942 before they were drafted for the War and also just now happens to be trying to recover from the resulting trauma of the aforementioned war, as well as several other extraordinary and unforeseeable circumstances and readjust to life in the 21st century as a genetically modified super-soldier? Oh,  _ wait… _ ” 

 

Bucky swatted a hand at her, batting her words away. If Steve wanted someone with shared life experiences, Bucky was not the person to ask. He could barely remember vast segments of his life, and besides, Steve wasn't interested, he was painfully aware of that (and that was without mentioning that Bucky was a man, and goddamnit, Steve wasn’t  _ that _ way). Steve had always been the brave one. If he'd wanted Bucky like that, he would've said something a long time ago. All the same, a little voice still whispers  _ But what if? Maybe?  _ He always tells it firmly to shut up.

 

Either way, despite Natasha’s ribbing, Bucky slowly becomes less hostile towards the other occupants of the Tower, what with the way Tony came through on his promise of a new (and safe) arm, complete with full sensory input, and Thor marvelling at his strength, and somewhat perverse sense of humor, after Bucky had finally opened up a little. The expanse of the Tower has become sort of a hangout for Bucky and Steve when they don’t feel like staying shut in their apartment (which isn’t often, but there are some good days).

 

But one day, something goes wrong. He has another episode, and this time, it's in front of everyone. So far, he’s managed to keep them confined to the apartment, but something apparently triggers him. He isn't really sure what happens. He’s in the kitchen of the common area, sitting at the table. All he knows is that Steve isn't there, but some of the other Avengers are, and everything's too loud, too heady and he can’t remember his name for a minute, and suddenly he slams his metal fist on the table. The sound of metal striking expensive (but reinforced) glass reverberates around the room like a gunshot. Everyone’s head immediately snaps around to stare at him like he’s just shot another president. The frosted glass top has cracked under his force, the diagonal line crawling jaggedly from one end of the table to another. In a sick metaphorical way, to Bucky, it looks like his anger at HYDRA for freezing him, doing this to him… Hurting him, making him become this _thing._ Erasing all his memories just for him to regain them and forget everything else for a while. Instantly, there's a change in the atmosphere of the room. It's like the temperature's dropped, but emotionally. They're all eyeing him warily, tensed like animals ready for a fight. The only sound is his breathing, heavy, and thick as it constricts tighter in his throat. It feels like plunging into freezing water, eyes shut and mouth pressed together against the onslaught of the fluid that wants to drown.

 

There's a moment's silence, and then one of them (he's not really sure which and he doesn't really care) asks, "Barnes, you okay there?"

 

"Stop." He growls, "Just stop. Why don't you people ever just stop talking?" Everything feels freezing, zeroed in to his focal point fist, still clenched amidst the spiraling fracture that was once a table. If he tries to uncurl each finger, release each synthetic fiber digging into chrome palm, even moves it just a little, the whole thing will shatter. 

 

Natasha shifts slightly and Bucky notices the gun in her lap, her finger curled around the trigger, a black snake hunkering down in the swaying grass. This just makes him angrier. 

 

"You can put that away, you know. I get it. I'm messed up. Believe me, I know that better than anyone. But maybe you could all at least pretend to treat me like a person! Just 'cause I'm damaged doesn't mean I'm going to snap at any given second!"

 

Natasha gives him a pointed look, and then she directs her gaze lower, blue eyes piercingly bright. Bucky follows it, and he realizes that he's holding his knife in his right hand. 

 

"Oh God," he swallows, "I didn't mean--I'm sorry..." He drops the knife on the table in front of him, drawing away from it like they were about to use it on him.

 

Natasha coolly sheaths her gun and turns to Clint, whose face seems strained in trying to pick a reaction somewhere between pitifully concerned, almost understanding maybe, and stonily defensive for his team, saying, "Why don't you go grab Steve?"

 

Steve rushes in a few moments later behind Clint and comes to a halt before the group, taking in the scene in front of him. Clint has apparently informed him of what has happened on the way over, and he nods his thanks at him and Natasha before holding out his hand without a word and helping his friend to his feet. 

 

Bucky follows him outside, not saying anything. They stand on the large, secluded balcony, looking out over the city, a cool breeze blowing their hair. Steve shuts the door behind them, and suddenly it’s just the two of them and the New York city skyline. Already, Bucky’s head feels a little clearer.

 

“So,” Steve says finally, voice devoid of any emotion that he fears might upset Bucky more. “You wanna tell me what just went down in there, Buck?”

 

“I wasn’t going to hurt them.” He growls, teeth clenched. The knuckles of his right hand are stretched taut and white, the bones and tendons straining against the skin, as they grip the smooth steel railing, and he leans out over it, surveying the long drop down. 

 

“You can't guarantee that. You had a knife!” Steve snaps a little, and now he sounds audibly upset. Bucky thinks maybe he’s finally gotten on the Captain’s last nerve, and Steve will send him away for good. He steels himself, ready to lose the last good thing he has again.

 

“I wasn’t going to... I wouldn’t-- _ He _ might’ve, you stupid punk, but not me. I wouldn’t hurt anyone you cared about. Not unless they hurt you first.” He answers, voice a dismal whine. Steve stops and stares at him. 

 

He unfreezes after a long minute. “Sorry--I... You sounded like--him.”  _ The Old You  _ hangs unspoken in the air between them.  He apologizes to Bucky and gives an uncomfortable cough, blinking as his face reddens.

 

“Well, maybe I was... For a minute. Maybe I felt like it.” The brunet murmurs softly, and looks at Steve with glistening eyes. 

 

“Buck,” he breathes, and surges forward automatically, wrapping an arm around his shaking shoulders and putting his face close to his friend’s.  _ My Buck,  _ he does not say. “You’re gonna be okay, alright? You’re my best friend, you have to be okay.”

 

He finds he quite enjoys being referred to as someone that _ is Steve’s _ , and knows this would be a good time to do what Natasha said he should. Her words ring in his ears, and that pesky voice in his head starts blabbering up a storm again. Steve cares for him, that much is apparent, but is it as a friend... Or something more? Is the dream from before a token of the long since glittering past, or a shadowed omen of the riches they could have? Talking about Jack and the army, he remembered having feelings for Steve, but did Steve have them for him back then?  Does he have them for the man Bucky is now? For so long, he’s thought the answer couldn’t be anything but no, but now he isn’t so sure.

 

The feeling he gets from being in such close proximity to Steve is exhilarating. It makes him feel a bit dizzy, even. It prompts him to experience a temporary loss of inhibitions and he asks, “Were we--Were we lovers? Did we ever…?”

 

Steve’s breath catches. He’s still so focused on worrying about Bucky’s episode back inside that this question takes a minute to compute in his mind, and when it does it pushes all the air from his lungs. He feels like a kid again, wheezing just from taking five steps. He doesn't remember it being this torturous, not being able to breath. A woven circlet crowning his bobbing Adam’s apple, the noose of dazzling gems that may be bits of broken glass, hot red ribbon or iron, a world-stopping feeling of shock that could kill him in the best way. Bucky's been watching him closely ever since he turned up in the apartment, and Steve knows he's been using him as an example, relearning how to act human. He should have known Bucky would pick up on... How Steve feels. It's not Bucky's fault that he's misinterpreted this as emotions that used to be reciprocated, even if it hurts Steve a lot. It take him a while to respond. 

 

“No,” Steve says, finally, and Bucky supposes he should feel crushed, but there’s a tone to Steve's voice that makes him question his sincerity.

 

“You’re lying to me.” He accuses. His voice is unchanging, without a trace of uncertainty, though his shoulders are shaking under the strong arm still around them. Even so, his words sound gruff and Steve can hear the betrayal in his tone. He needs to sort this out before Bucky gets the wrong idea and pushes him away. 

 

“No, Bucky, I just… No. We weren’t lovers. Well, I mean… Once, when we were in London after we broke you out of the Hydra camp… But you were  _ really _ drunk and upset. I don’t think you really meant to, you just wanted comfort, and you came onto me and you wouldn't stop and I didn’t know how to react and things kind of just…” he seems to notice he’s rambling and trails off.

 

Bucky’s insides feel like they’ve been set alight, singed and sooty fingertips ghosting over an old photograph of the two of them, lighter flicked open but never moving closer to the paper’s edge. He  _ knew  _ it. He knew they’d slept together. And the moment Steve mentioned it, the fragments of the memory began to fall back into place. “I wasn’t.” he states.

 

Steve frowns, “What?”

 

“I wasn’t drunk,” he clarifies, “I… I pretended to be, so… y’know… So it wouldn’t’ve been weird, if you pushed me away. I told you, I didn’t want you to think I was a freak.”  He takes a breath. “Steve.” He presses his eyes shut and intones the name like it’s a prayer, “I think… I think I loved you.”

 

When he opens his eyes, the look on the other man's face is unreadable, but Bucky'll be damned if he doesn't catch a flash of pain in his eyes. "That's not... Bucky, I think you're confused. You're not remembering things right... You told me after it happened, it didn't mean anything. You were just lonely and upset. Nothing more."

 

"Well, then, I lied to you, didn't I?! Goddamit, Steve! You’re always so oblivious! It was 1943 and we were two men, and I wanted you as more than a friend, and for more than just sex, and I was an idiot! I was  _ scared,  _ okay? I didn't know what to do! I know you don’t get what that means, to be scared, but I was  _ terrified _ . You’re not afraid of anything, never have been." He says, bitterly.

 

Now Steve's eyes are closed, and it seems like he's fighting to stay calm. “That’s not true.” He whispers, and Bucky scoffs. “It’s not,” Steve insists, “I’m--I’ve always been scared of losing you. Forever.” There’s a pause, and then, "You wouldn’t even kiss me." He states, as though this disproves everything Bucky's saying.

 

Bucky's voice breaks, "I--I couldn’t…” He states awkwardly, tripping over the words. He knows the answer as to why he didn’t, but saying it aloud seems like too much to bear after all he’s already said. “I wanted to… But you were--I couldn’t do that to you. I knew--I  _ know  _ you aren’t that way, okay? I figured if I just turned around and let you do what you wanted, you could pretend I was whoever you wanted me to be. And then it wouldn’t have had to be  _ that _ way--At least for you…” And anyways, kissing him would have said too much… He would have known how Bucky felt about him, and after that, it would’ve been just a matter of time before Steve passed judgement. There would have been no going back from that, and back then, Bucky wouldn’t have been able to take it.

 

Steve gives him a look akin to a glare. Bucky briefly wonders if it was a mistake to bring this up at all, even now. But then, the look melts into something much softer. “How long?” Steve asks, after what seems like another eternity, another 70 years, “When did you start?”

 

Bucky takes a shaky breath, “Always, but I don’t think I knew till later. Maybe on your 16th birthday? When we took my uncle’s boat out and it was just us and… I think that’s when I realized...”  _ That you were sunshine, sweetly sipped from a marigold cup with lips that were already slurring words; drunk on besottedness. That you were the sea breeze, salty and enticing, that brushed the soft strand of hair out of my eyes so I could see the shoreline. That you were everything I’d ever wanted with your scruffy hair and scrawny frame, each protruding bone something beautiful, delicate, but never fragile in the way it seemed. That your eyes cut me to the core and pricked my heart and from then on I could never be anything but yours… And you couldn’t have me. Things were different, they’d have killed us both, and I spent too much time already trying to keep Death’s sticky fingers out of the sparkled gossamer of your soul. _

 

“All that time…” Steve looks incredulous, “And now?”

 

He freezes and his stomach plummets.  _ Now you know why you didn’t tell him then. _ The ghost is bitter in his mind.

 

He doesn’t know what Steve wants him to say. He doesn’t know what he  _ should  _ say. Hell, he doesn’t really know anything anymore, because all he can think about is replaying that moment over and over in his head when he pretended to be smashed in London, and his lips connected with Steve’s for the first and last time (after Steve fell asleep, since Bucky couldn’t risk it while he was awake, because he knew if he did, then he'd never be able to stop and Steve would know and it would all be over), and it was better than he ever could have dreamed.

 

Is this what Natasha wants? For him to just put everything on the line, bare his entire soul to Steve so that the man Bucky so desperately loves can--can what? Bucky knows Steve so well, and yet, he has no idea what Steve will do with everything Bucky is giving him. There’s so much fear and uncertainty, and it’s driving him mad, it has been since that night on the boat in 1934. Even so, he thinks he’ll be glad to finally have it off his chest. There have never been any secrets between him and Steve. Except for this. For it to be gone… Will be freeing, he thinks.

 

“Yes.” Bucky murmurs, “And you can kick me out if you want, I don’t care. I’ll leave if you want me to. I just need you to know now, Steve. I already have to lie to everyone except you, and I can’t do it, not while I'm like this. I can’t keep lying to you, not like I did then. I loved you back before the war and I  _ still  _ love you--”

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Steve asks in distress. He steps forward, “I love you too, okay?”

 

Bucky backs away, sure he hasn’t heard him right, and continues, “It’s fine if you don’t want me that way, I just need you to know that you mean  _ everything _ to me and if I lost you again without you knowing, I don’t think I could--”

 

Steve cuts him off by pushing him against the cold railing and whispers in Bucky’s ear, “Just listen for a minute, why don’t ya?  _ I love you. _ Now shut up and kiss me.” Steve reaches for the collar of Bucky’s shirt and pulls him forward.

 

Bucky grins wickedly, perched precariously on the edge of the railing, the only thing preventing him from a huge drop he’s not sure even _he_ would survive, but his eyes are swimming with unshed tears. He doesn’t care. He arches his back over the metal and slings his arms around Steve’s waist, and the wind is freezing them both so he shivers, and its stinging his eyes but he _doesn’t_ _care_. _This_ is what it means to be alive, and he is no longer the dead man he once was, the heartless creature those people made him.

 

“Fucking finally, punk,” he half-sobs, half-laughs. Just before the distance between them is completely gone, Bucky asks because he has to know, “When did--?”

 

“The moment I saw you,” Steve breathes (and  _ really _ , Bucky thinks,  _ Could he be any more dramatic? _ ), “From the moment I first saw you. I always knew.” 

 

And with that, their lips are pressed against each others’ and Bucky can’t think of anything better than this moment right here and now. He’d fall off a thousand trains, wait forever in an icy tomb with brainwashing and torture and pain, just to be able to stay here for a second more. Steve’s lips are warm and soft as they meet his own, and Bucky feels his knees falter but Steve holds him up, hands moving dangerously down the small of his back until they are just a drop lower from uncertain terrain. Then Steve pulls back for a minute and sighs, “You know what? You're a fucking idiot, Barnes.”

 

Bucky stares incredulously at him. “I… What?” Not once has Steve Rogers ever said those words to him in such a serious tone before, and honestly, he's a little offended. He’s also fairly certain that it isn’t common practice to make out with (and subtly grope) people and then insult them. He’s understandably confused.

 

“You're a complete fucking dumbass!,” Steve reiterates, “I can’t believe you never told me! We had so much time back then! And we both went to our deaths without knowing what we could’ve had, because neither of us ever said anything!”

 

First, Bucky takes notice of how unfair it is that Steve's the one complaining about waiting, when really, it was Bucky who had to wait, in and out of stasis, while Steve was hibernating in his cozy little arctic tomb (he knows what a massive understatement that is, but Steve is being petty too and it’s second nature for Bucky to fire right back). But that's not important. He knows there's no point in arguing with Steve about that. Instead, he'll just defend his previous lack of willingness to come forward and admit his feelings. And now, with Steve’s big revelation… He should understand too.

 

“You know why I couldn’t! You know why both of us couldn’t.” Bucky stares at the floor. He and Steve were beaten up enough just for the damn kid’s stubborn attitude as it was. But something like that, in the 1940s… It wouldn’t have just been assholes sauntering around on the streets. It would’ve been people who’d used to be their friends, maybe even their families, and the cops, too. They’d have gone straight to jail if they weren’t careful (and really, had anyone ever known them to be?) and Bucky knew that there was no way Steve could’ve survived jail back then. The label  _ homosexual _ would’ve just painted an even bigger target on Steve’s back, one that was almost certain to get him killed.

 

“I don’t care.” Steve protests, “It would have been worth it. For you, it would’ve been.” Typical.

 

“Not for me, goddammit!” Bucky retorts, “Losing you... I’d rather have you alive, without this, than have this for a week, only for you to go and get yourself beaten to death over it! Don’t you understand? You’re everything to me! If you’d died back then, I’d have made sure I followed before the day was up! And for all I knew, if I’d said anything in the first place, you might’ve hated me for what I was! And if you had, how could you ever be able to look at me again? I couldn’t risk that. I couldn’t risk losing you. You were still my best pal, even if you didn’t love me like I loved you.”

 

The other is silent for a moment and then he tries to speak, voice rough and cracking. “How could you even think that? I can’t believe you called  _ me _ oblivious!” says Steve, “‘Til the end of the line. No matter who you loved, or who I loved, it would have always been that way. And I wanted it to have been you… But you never noticed how most girls didn't want a thing to do with me. You kept trying to set me up with them.”

 

“I wanted you to be happy. Stupidest damn girls on the planet, not falling head over heels for you...” Bucky cuts in, sighing. For a moment, he wonders how he hadn’t seen it before; how neither of them had. They’d lived together, cared for each other, promised to come back to each other, saved each other. Steve had broken orders to save him. Steve had risked himself to go back for him, tried to get him to safety without him.  _ Just get out of here! Go…. _ He’d almost died for him, taken on Hydra and SHIELD for him, given up all else for him. Sure, he’d loved Peggy, but Bucky had no idea how he’d never seen the love still shining beneath the surface, like a penny lost beneath the murky fountain, for him. And he’d loved Steve too, had the man not noticed how he’d taken him in, nursed him back to health because he’d rather be starving, poor, and thieving than lose Steve. He’d fought alongside him to protect that kid from Brooklyn he still saw in the Herculean warrior that said his name in the same, infatuated tone.  _ No, not without you! _ No one had loved Steve like he did. 

“But they all wanted  _ you _ , Buck.  _ You _ went out with so many women, I thought there was no way you'd… All that time…” he says again. He sounds stunned... Unable to believe how much they could’ve had.

 

“I don’t know how those girls didn’t see you were the only one I ever wanted, even when I didn’t know it myself.” Bucky lifts his real hand to Steve’s face and traces his cheekbone with his thumb. “But now we have all  _ this  _ time,” he breathes, moving back in to kiss him again. Bucky isn't always sure what he wants, but for once, he knows he wants  _ this,  _ whatever it is.

 

For just a moment, Steve feels his heart fluttering just like it did in the old days, and his chest contracts. But this time, he knows it's not a heart palpitation or his asthma. This... This is all him. Well, really, it's all the fact that Bucky's lips are moving against his and it suddenly doesn’t feel like a sin and he's loving every second of it, and now, Bucky isn't even (pretending to be) drunk off his ass. They part for half of a moment, and Steve inhales Bucky's scent. It's just the way he remembers, and he knows it's probably just nostalgia, but somehow, the smell of the docks Bucky used to work on still clings to his clothes. He smells of fuel and seaspray and sweat and the East River and a thousand other things Steve shouldn't crave but does anyway. There's a cold, metallic tinge that he doesn't remember from before, and it's different, but Steve has to admit, he likes it.

 

Sure, Bucky realizes that he’s going a little overboard with the whole kissing thing. But hell, he's been waiting for this since he figured out that he was in love with Steve a little over 80 years ago. He licks across Steve's lips and elicits a soft sigh of contentment from him. Then he starts moving lower, down Steve's neck, and is met with a series of scandalous noises. Bucky reaches for the hem of Steve's shirt, but to his surprise, is met with resistance. Steve pulls back, and Bucky lifts his eyes to meet Steve's, which are closed. Breathing heavily, he grasps Bucky's wrists and moves them away from him. 

 

"Not now." He says, "Not here. We should take this slow, do things right."

 

Bucky nods in agreement. Not  _ now _ , but there’s a promise in there that there will be a time when his hungry ravaging of Steve’s cool, windblown skin will be acceptable. The thought of it sends a shiver down his spine, and he’s glad he got some practice in before he was taken by HYDRA. 

 

“Before that,” Steve adds suddenly, snapping his companion out of his thoughts. He smiles wryly, looking up at Bucky with hooded blue eyes, fringed with long lashes. Bucky would have him now, he’s so damn  _ beautiful  _ the ex-soldier cannot stand it. “There’s someone who I’ve been meaning to pay a visit. I just... She deserves to know, she’d probably even do something foolish like say she knew all along and offer her congratulations.”

 

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "All I want to get is a little bit closer  
> All I want to know is, can you come a little closer?
> 
> Here comes the breath before we get a little bit closer  
> Here comes the rush before we touch, come a little closer  
> Here comes the heat before we meet a little bit closer  
> Here comes the spark before the dark, come a little closer  
> I want you close, I want you  
> I won't treat you like you're typical..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha, whats this????????????????? another actual update?????????? that isn't 897868727 years from the last one??? EVEN THE NEXT DAY???? dang i must really love you guys. i mean i do, but in reality this chapter was already all finished and rewritten a few times so i didnt need to go back and make more than like, two, changes. hope you enjoy, whoever is still reading this!! this chapter is basically sam teasing steve and then shameless fluff. also some references to reading i did for my english lit class two years ago when we started this fic so if you see two books randomly thrown in there (and you will) know that it is because a) both of us knew them pretty well, and b) it is literally impossible for me to read anything classic without relating it back to fandoms, especially ships like stucky hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahelpmehahahahahahatheresactuallyalotofparallelsokhahahahaha

A confused mixture of panic, envy, relief, and joy races through Bucky when he learns that Peggy Carter is still alive. He’d always liked her, though he’d been irrationally jealous of her relationship with Steve. Sometimes, he just couldn’t shake the feeling that she was stealing everything he could have had, if only he’d said something, if only the world would have let him… But he couldn’t hold it against her. She was too kind and clever and pretty and funny, and hell, if Steve hadn’t gotten there first, Bucky couldn’t have guaranteed that he wouldn’t have been exactly where Steve had. But that wasn’t the case, and really, all Bucky ever wanted was for Steve to be happy, and if Peggy made Steve happy, then it was Peggy that Steve would have. She was knockout dame, for sure, and Steve deserved only the best. He’d known that much back then, and he knew it still. If anyone had said that Steve Rogers didn’t love Peggy Carter or that the feeling wasn’t mutual, they’d have been lying to themselves. But alas, it wasn’t meant to be, because now Peggy’s old and dying, and Steve is still young and alive.  _ And I am too,  _ Bucky thinks, and it’s a little comical and a viciously ironic, because it’s like fate has given Steve to him, like it caused Bucky's unit to be the one captured by Hydra, ensured that Bucky would be picked for Zola’s experiments and that the procedure done on him would be successful so that he would survive the train and the cryo-freeze, forced Steve's plane down into the arctic and preserved him just for Bucky. And all this serves to confirm Bucky’s personal theory that the best things happen to the worst people, and the worst things happen to the best people, because someone as horrible and twisted and marred as Bucky sure as hell doesn’t deserve perfect and virtuous and beautiful as Steve, and Steve definitely deserves much better than to be guilt-tripped into taking care of this corpse, shadow,  _ mutation _ of something he once loved by his ridiculous sense of self-righteousness and responsibility and morality that was antiquated, even in the 1940s.

 

And this is what Bucky is thinking as he stares out the window of Steve’s car on their way to go visit Peggy Carter. It seems that maybe some wounds might never heal, where even after all the progress he’s made, the dark ideas will still snake in between the darkened corners of his mind.

 

When they arrive at the front desk, the receptionist smiles at him. She is a spunky young woman with curly brown hair and amber eyes. Her skin is warm and dotted with tiny freckles. She is short and no size 0, but she wears her blue dress with a floral print well, with a red cardigan thrown over it. It is slightly chilly in the office, after all. Her red headband pulls back her hair, which is loose. Steve likes her because she always brightens his day with her perky attitude, and her makeup is always impeccable, red lipstick and eyeliner that remind him of the past. Her grin is wide as she watches him approach, because he is a regular here and takes time to be polite and treat her with respect, unlike most of the men around the place. The home for those of outstanding service during the War is filled to the brim with the elderly who once meant something to the country, and who were thought of with reverence when one heard the word “ _ Freedom _ .” They’ve come back down to DC, after all.

 

“Captain Rogers.” The girl says cheerfully as he leans against the framework of the red desk she works at. Soft jazz emits from the speakers beside her, spreading throughout the waiting room. Steve recognizes the sweet, warbling voice of Dolores Del Rio. He used to own this record, he muses. Her manicured fingers, a blur of red varnish, pause on the black keys of an old Dell computer. Her many silver rings flash in the dim lighting, long lashes lifting to meet his eyes and her smile widens as she sees his own. 

 

“Melanie.” He greets her. “A pleasure to see you, as always.”

“And you, dear! I’ll page the nurse so she can let Ms. Carter know you’re coming in. She’s been asking when you’d come ‘round, you know. Took you long enough, if you ask me.” She gives him a chastising look.

 

He shrugs in response, though guilty takes a gentle stab at his chest, “I’ve been busy. I moved. How are you today?”

“Uff! You know how work is, checking people in and out, and all the paperwork! My computer crashed and took half our files with it, so I’ve been restoring them to the database all day. Everyone is off schedule, and has been working to find all of the paper copies of our records down in the basement, if they weren’t recycled after being entered. It’s one heck of a mess, I tell you. Plus, it’s Veteran’s Day, and Mr. Lemos,” she whispers, pointing over at a tiny old man sitting in a wheelchair by the bulletin board in a beige sweater and huddled under a baby blue blanket. His glasses perched on his large, beaklike nose, make his eyes look as large as saucers. “Left his room and has been sitting out here all day, so I’ve been keeping an eye on him. He hasn’t said a word, or done anything other than look at that photo pinned to the board. He does this every year when Veteran’s Day rolls around...” She sighs, clucking her tongue in a  _ poor thing _ manner. Steve agrees that the sight is pretty tragic. 

 

The photo on the board is old, a grainy black and white depicting a long line of young men in two rows. Some of them are so young they look like no more than boys, yet all of them have their hair combed neatly and are dressed in starched and pressed military uniforms. Some are smiling at the camera, some look angry or unamused, while a few are gazing penchant off into the distance or caught in blurry laughter as they turn to sneakily converse with a friend. Most of them are probably dead now, and Steve’s heart constricts. He crosses over to the man and stands beside him, inspecting the picture a moment longer before turning to look down at the wrinkled old fellow beside him.  _ I should look like that too _ , Steve thinks. It should be him in the chair, a shriveled husk with no future and nothing but the past to make him both happy and sad. He has escaped that fate, at least for a while, and he doesn’t know if he’s cheated death, or cheated himself out of the experience. 

 

“I can tell they were a wonderful battalion.” He remarks, murmuring softly, his face close to Mr. Lemos’ ear so that he can hear him. 

 

The old man merely shakes his head bitterly. “What would you know about that? You’re young, and have this gleaming new world ahead of you. Don’t waste your time looking back to a past of bleeding and sooty gunsmoke you never even had to know. It isn’t worth it.” He rasps out.

 

“Would you believe me if I said I was there?” Steve asks, a humorless laugh escaping from his throat. “I fought Nazis and everything. In Europe.”

 

The old man seems to really notice his presence then, round eyes moving to squint suspiciously at the Captain.

 

“Captain America. I should’ve known. They say you come here all the time.” He breathes. “You visited my hometown once… in Illinois. I was 18 then and you amazed me. My mama hadn’t smiled in months and then suddenly she did, seeing you. She said you gave her hope and she squeezed my hand and told me, ‘Arthur, if you aspire to be just like that man there, then you’ll be alright.’ I got drafted a month later.” 

 

His eyes are glossed over with unshed tears and his voice trembles as he points a shaking, gnarled finger to one man in the picture. At first glance, he is standing stoically at the head of the troop, on the left of the first row, beside the sergeant. While his arms are folded behind his back, there is a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and there is mirth in his eyes now as he bumps Steve with an elbow. 

 

“That’s me.” He whispers hoarsely. “That  _ was _ me, little Arthur Lemos.” His fat, stumpy finger slides over to the proud looking officer, a handsome gentleman who looks very regal in his uniform. His dark hair is slicked back, and with his prominent jaw and cheekbones he could have been a movie star. “That’s Georgie, my brother. Shot down in France a week before his 31st birthday.” 

 

The aged man chokes back a sob. Steve places a hand on his shoulder, repositioning his chair so that they can both lay eyes on Bucky, hovering uncertainly by the sliding glass doorway that is the entrance, where Steve had left him when he greeted Melanie. While he has pulled back his hair into a short, messy ponytail and is wearing a rumpled blue button-down and jeans with a leather belt, there are still purple circles below his eyes, ghosts still seeming to haunt him. 

 

“Sergeant James Barnes of the 107th.” Steve states in a hushed voice, though his companion still hears him, and his head flicks up immediately, his face rapt with attention. A hint of a smile ghosts over his lips at the mere sound of Steve saying his name and he meets the gaze of the Captain. “I lost him, for 70 years… And suddenly he was back by my side. I thought I’d never see him again, and here he is, with me. Don’t worry, Mr. Lemos, if you really love someone, you’ll rediscover them eventually.”

 

The old man looks happier and clutches at a silk black and red poppy pinned to the hem of his sweater, beside a fading soupstain. Steve remembers again with a start that it is Veteran’s Day (Melanie had only just reminded him, but the conversation had driven it from his mind), and is shocked that in this memorial hospital for the men and women who served their country, all the dead seem to have been forgotten, except by this man. 

 

Then, surprisingly the man barks out a laugh and calls to Bucky,  “You punch like a prizefighter with that arm o’ yours! Wish I had something like that to use on the man who shot ol’ George! I saw ya on the news! Throwing Cap here all over the place.” He chuckles, elbowing the Captain in the abdominal muscles. “Not so unfriendly now, though, eh?”

 

Both men blush, turning bright red and Steve begins stammering out gibberish nonsense in response. Mr. Lemos only winks at them, and pushes Steve on his way, in the direction of the hall at the end of the entryway, which smells unpleasantly of medicine and disinfectant.  

 

“You didn’t come to meet a crotchety old man with one foot in the grave.” He pronounces, wiping his eyes quickly with a corner of his blanket. “Go, see whomever you need to see. We don’t all get an addition to our years, boys, and we all only have so much time. You might as well accomplish what you set out to do while you’re here. Me and Georgie will be just fine…” He finishes with a friendly wave of his hand, and he turns his head back to stare at the photograph on the board. 

 

Walking down the cool, tiled hallway, Steve becomes very nervous. His anxiousness rises as he considers the possibility that Peggy could be having a bad day, and not remember him at all, or that the sight of Bucky could frighten her too much and send her into a fit. And Steve doesn’t even want to think about the reverse. If seeing Peggy triggers one of Bucky’s episodes, here in public, with all these people whose only defense will be Steve… He stops them outside of Peggy’s room. “Maybe you should wait here for a minute. Just let me talk to her first. I don’t…I don’t want to spook her. ”

 

Bucky clenches and unclenches his hands, probably subconsciously. “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

 

He gives his friend a pat on the shoulder and steps into Peggy’s room. The nurse on duty is bustling around, apparently removing the remains of what was Peggy’s lunch. She smiles gently at Steve and then exits the room. Peggy’s gaze flits over to Steve, and after a brief moment of blankness, recognition fills her eyes and Steve lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. 

 

“Hey, Peg,” He murmurs and goes to kiss her on the cheek.

 

“Steve.” She says warmly. Then her expression changes, and it’s clear she’s remembered something more. “I saw.” She says, eyes wide, “Steve, I saw. The Triskelion, Barnes, the press, the announcement. I saw it.”

 

He nods and goes to sit by her, “I’m sorry… About SHIELD. I know how much it meant to you.”

 

She waves him off, “SHIELD will rebuild itself, I have faith. But Barnes? Is he alright? Are you? I heard about what they did to him on the news. It must kill you. But Steve--” she takes his hand and clasps it firmly, “--you mustn’t blame yourself. There was no way you could have known he was alive. No one could have. If either of us had known...”

 

“You know me too well,” he tells her, and gives her hand a gentle squeeze. “He’s here, you know. He wants to talk to you.”

 

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Peggy gives him a look, “Send him in! God knows, I haven’t seen the man in 70 years! I’m liable to forget any second now, don’t make me wait any longer!”

 

Steve stands up and heads to the hallway to pull Bucky inside. Then he reclaims his seat at Peggy’s side, and Bucky walks slowly up to the bed. “James,” she says, eyes shining. She never did address him as Bucky. He has always been just James to her, and he’s happy to note that this at least is still the same.

 

“Your face has… changed…” he says to her, voice soft.

 

Peggy stares at him, a glint in her eyes, “And you don’t look a day over 30.” She reaches out to touch his face. “It seems so impossible… You’re both here.  _ Alive. Young. _ ”

 

Bucky looks away. He knows she must be thinking exactly what he was thinking in the car. Should he apologize? He doesn’t know. It’s not like it’s his fault that Steve had to go and get himself frozen in ice, instead of living the life he was meant to have with Peggy. Except for the fact that it is. 

 

“This is all  _ wrong. _ ” he growls, “This should  _ never _ have happened.” Steve flashes him a warning look, and he shuts his eyes, getting his breathing and heart rate under control. He’s not going to lose it in a nursing home, of all places.

 

Peggy offers him a wry and wistful smile that he does not return. “Do you remember the good old days? Running around Europe, hunting down HYDRA bases… Those were some of the best months of my life.”

 

He wants to scream. He remembers some, not all. But enough. Enough to know that Peggy is a better person that he will ever be, and that really, Peggy should be the one Steve professes his undying love for. And yet… “Steve and I are in love.” he blurts, not entirely sure why.

 

Peggy doesn’t look heartbroken. She doesn’t even look vaguely surprised. She looks between the two of them, with an eyebrow quirked. “So you finally figured it out? Took you long enough. I would’ve been fine with it, you know, really.”

 

“Was it that obvious?” Steve looks at her, dismayed.

 

Peggy rolls her eyes, “Honestly, the only people that didn’t see it were you two. I believe some of your commandos had even placed bets on whether or not either one of you would ever actually do something. Although, I don’t think they imagined it would take this long. If you’ve come here seeking my blessing, you have it.”

 

“I--Thank you.” Bucky tells her, and he means it, really.

 

“You’re a good man, James. And while I may not have been above giving you a little competition over this one here, there’s not much I can offer him now. I had a good life, I was loved. For what it’s worth, if it has to be someone else, I’m glad it’s you.” A wry smile crosses her withered face. Then it turns into something more pained and she grasps both of their hands in each of hers. “Go,” she says, “Let an old woman rest. I don’t want you to see me when I forget.”

 

So they say their goodbyes and they sit in the car on the drive back, trying hard not to cry.

* * *

Sleep is hard for Bucky. Most of the time he lies pressed against Steve, awake and trying to remember. Being close to Steve helps. After visiting Peggy, tonight is no exception. This time, he tries to remember the people he’d known in the life that was no longer his.

 

Bucky'd heard plenty of stories about the fairy folk from his relatives from the old country by the time he was 7. They had different names depending on who you asked, but Bucky didn't really care what they were called either way. It wasn't important. Either way, he knew what they were, and that was how he knew when he met Sarah Rogers for the first time that she was something else. Something not of this world, maybe even an angel on earth. Bucky'd never seen anyone so beautiful, save for Steve himself. Her hair was paler than Steve's, long and wispy and silvery blonde and her eyes were the color of seaglass, and they often turned stormy when she was upset, just like Steve’s. She was small and thin, as frail as her son, and Bucky knew that it was because Steve and Sarah were too good for this world, and that was the price they had to pay for remaining here. They were meant for better places. It was clear that Steve had inherited his unflappable moral code from his mother, but unlike Steve, Sarah’s voice was high and clear as a bell and she was soft spoken, except for when she was angry. Her melodic Irish brogue was soft and Bucky had the vague recollection that she’d liked to sing in it as she cleaned up the little apartment she shared with her son.

 

Of course, neither Bucky nor Steve’d ever met Steve’s pa. All they knew was were the stories Sarah had sometimes told them on the nights that Bucky’d stayed over when they were little. Sarah did not talk much about Joseph Rogers, but Bucky knew he must’ve been a damn good man, to get a creature as wonderful as Sarah to fall in love with him, much less to persuade her to stay in the human world with him. Sometimes, he’d half-wonder why Sarah stayed, even after Joseph died. The answer was obvious though: Steve. Bucky wasn’t dumb. He knew that Steve didn’t really belong in that world, just like he didn’t belong in this one either.

 

Sarah Rogers had loved Bucky like he was her own second son, and Bucky loved her back. And then one day, Sarah suddenly couldn’t hold out any longer against flawed human world. She began coughing up blood, and she was dying. She tried to hide it, but they saw. Bucky was sure it was only a matter of time before Steve would follow. He doesn’t know if Steve knows it, but Bucky had been the last one to speak to Sarah Rogers as she lay on her deathbed. 

 

_ They'd been young, barely twenty, when it happened. He could remember her eyes gleaming in the dimness of the hospital room, clipped vowels still audible as she struggled to breathe without coughing. _

 

_ "You love him." She had said. _

 

_ Bucky’s blood ran cold because he knew she didn’t mean the kind of love people had for their friends or even family. But he wasn’t shocked or surprised that Sarah knew (and really, it was the opposite; he’d never really been able to hide his feelings, especially for Steve, and it astonished him that no one else, much less Steve, knew), and he didn’t have it in him to deny it, not as she lay on her deathbed. He couldn't lie to her, not then, so he nodded and took her hand. "Yes." _

 

_ "Then promise me--" she'd broken off and coughed violently, traces of blood tinting her pale, chapped lips. He remembered seeing a brief mental image of Steve, lips coated in blood, cold and not breathing. It was driven away as Sarah went on, "Promise me, you’ll never leave him." _

 

_ “‘Til the end of the line. I would never--" Bucky had begun, but Sarah spoke over him with her raspy voice. _

 

_ "I know the world won't understand it. They'll try to hurt you for it, both of you. But James, promise me you won’t give up on him because of that. I know you think it's your job to get between him and everything that wants to hurt him," she paused to cough again, "but believe me, nothing the world would hurt him as much as you can by leaving him alone because you think you’re saving him." As she finished, she'd devolved into another fit of coughs, but Bucky held her hand tightly till she stopped. _

 

_ He wanted to laugh, because it sounded almost like she thought Steve loved him back in  _ that  _ way, and maybe Steve loved him, but not like that. Steve wasn’t like that. Steve was a good man, and good men weren’t like that. Sarah made an expectant noise, and then he'd promised, "Okay." _

 

_ "Swear it," she ordered, voice sounding even weaker. _

 

_ "I swear." As he spoke the words, Sarah's eyes drifted shut, and she nodded, seeming placated. Another image of Steve with blood on his lips had transposed itself over her at that moment, and Bucky stood up abruptly. He had let go of her hand and left the hospital, only to be informed several hours later that Sarah Rogers had passed on. _

 

_ He remembers going to see Steve after. The echoes of the words,  _ "The thing is, you don't have to..."  _ and _ "'Till the end of the line..."  _ float through his head, and he clings to Steve tighter in their bed as he continues to reminisce. Steve is sleep-warm and makes a quiet, happy noise, unconsciously leaning into Bucky, whose thoughts have now turned to his own family. _

 

Although his own mother wasn’t quite as ethereal as Steve’s, she was still magical, just in a different way. She was a child of the earth, no doubt about it. Winifred Barnes (Winnie to her friends) was not Irish, unlike most of the people in their Brooklyn neighborhood. She was from Romania, and her grandparents on her mother’s side (which Bucky supposed would be his great-grandparents) were Roma, and her father was a farmer. Bucky had gotten his icy grey-blue eyes and legendary tan from them, according to his ma. His pa’s name was George Barnes, and his family was Black Irish, on account of them having dark hair and dark eyes, like his siblings. George hadn’t been home often as a result of his working endlessly to support his large family, but he’d done the best that he could with his children.

 

George and Winnie had always treated Steve as well as Sarah treated Bucky. Sarah and Winnie had become good friends, mostly because Steve and Bucky had. Bucky remembers that the Sunday after he and Steve first met, Sarah had come over with Steve and sat next to Bucky’s family in the pews, thanking his ma for having raised such a good and kind boy. And that was that. They sat together every Sunday after, and sometimes after school, Steve and Bucky would come home to the tiny Rogers’ apartment to find Sarah and Winnie mending clothes on the couch with the radio on, Bucky’s siblings playing on the floor.

 

Where Steve’s family had been just him and his ma, Bucky’s family was made up of six people. There were his parents, who’d had him when they were just 17, and unprepared to be raising a child, but Bucky knew his ma had loved him, nonetheless. However, the shock of his birth meant that his first sibling, his sister Rebecca, wasn’t born until he was 6. Two years later, the twins, were born. The twins were named Jack and Thomas Barnes.

 

Bucky wonders if they’re still alive, and if they’ve had children, grandchildren, or even great-grandchildren. He wonders what they would’ve told their kids about him, the brother who died in the war, who fought with Captain America. He wonders if maybe Steve’s told them that he and Bucky are still alive. He thinks about his mother receiving word of his death, and another memory surfaces.

 

_ In the hallway of the Rogers’ apartment at the age of 8. Sarah and Winnie mending clothes on the couch in the next room. “I just know,” said his ma, and Bucky thought that maybe she was crying, “One day, that boy of mine is gonna break my heart.” _ Bucky lets go of the memory, and holds a little tighter to Steve, allowing himself to finally sink back into sleep.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, they try to ignore the memory of Peggy’s deteriorating mind. Some things are just too sad and upsetting to dwell on, especially when there are more important things to be done. Steve knows this better than most, so he rises early, meeting Sam for a run. His friend is in the city for business, and it is rare that they ever are able to see each other anymore, now that they live so far apart and their mutual hunt for a missing person has concluded. Steve tosses on some sweats and a tee-shirt and is out the door as soon as his laces are tied. He jogs down the stairs, foregoing the elevator, and alerts JARVIS that he is leaving, and to let Bucky know he is safe with Sam, should he wake up while Steve is still absent. 

 

“Of course, sir.” JARVIS acknowledges in a chipper voice much too pleasant for the early hour. Steve himself is barely awake as he stumbles down the street to the agreed meeting spot, finding Sam leaning against a large oak tree, the weak light of the cloudy morning casting him in a faint, grey shadow. 

 

Sam stands and moved towards him, arms crossed over his chest. He grins when he sees Steve, eyebrows raised at the dark circles beneath the man’s eyes. “Well, good morning to you too, Sleeping Beauty.” He comments as they begin to run down Steve’s usual path. “What’s beatin’ you up so bad, you can’t sleep?”

 

Steve grimaces, slowing his pace to stay in sync with Sam. “We visited Peggy yesterday.” He provides bluntly, trying to focus on the sound of his feet hitting the pavement and not the sound of her voice telling them to go before she no longer remembered them being there at all. The thought makes his blood run cold with guilt. Sam hums in understanding, turning his face towards the street, though his eyes remain on Steve. 

“That must have been rough.” He pants sympathetically, feeling pity for the woman, who is no longer the firecracker Steve once described her as. Steve only nods. After a beat, he resumes speaking as though he had never left off.

 

“Bucky saw her for the first time in years, and I think it discomforted him, seeing her… aged. He was silent, and then all of a sudden he just blurted out that we’re in love.” Steve says, voice distant, almost disbelieving that it happened. Peggy  _ knows _ , and she approves. Apparently a lot of their team knew as well. He wishes any of them would have bothered to let the two of them know. This surprises Sam, who stops abruptly mid-stride and stands behind Steve. He stares at him with sudden bewilderment, holding out his hands, dusty palms up.

 

“Whoa, whoa. Wait, he said  _ what  _ now?” Sam inquires, voice rising in suspicion and surprise. 

 

Steve can feel his face going red, and hopes the weak morning light masks the heat in his cheeks. “That we’re in love.” He answers weakly, voice quiet. He doesn’t look Sam in the eye. Sam raises his eyebrows, taking a step closer. 

 

“And  _ was he right _ ?” He pries, voice blatantly loud in Steve’s ears. Steve knows he should tell his friend the truth, now that he’s come so far in this blunder that he basically admitted it. If he can tell Natasha (albeit under duress), he can easily tell Sam. At least, in theory… 

 

Steve bobs his head in a brisk nod. “Yes, he was. It’s true.” He shoots back, voice surprisingly steady for this serious confession. He quirks the corner of his mouth at Sam, finally meeting his gaze with eyes that are a darkened cobalt blue, pupils wide and fierce with challenge. “Is that a problem?” Steve likes Sam a lot, but it’s the 21st century, and he is not opposed to knocking some sense into his friends.

 

Sam’s face goes blank in astonishment at the sudden interrogation.  “Uh, no. Of course not, man! I had my share of flings with guys in my younger days… I’m cool with it! I just--” He stammers out, stumbling over his words. Had Steve really thought he’d be shocked at this information? Or, even more odd, that he would be opposed to their relationship? Steve had led him halfway across the world looking for Bucky, and he felt that made the depth of his feelings pretty clear. And even better, Sam _had_ gone with him on that taxing expedition, so he must’ve respected and valued how much Steve cares for him. 

 

“What?” Steve asks, shrugging. “You just what?” 

 

Sam can no longer hide the cheeky grin on his face. “I just knew it.” He replies with a cocky tone. “I had a feeling this would happen, and look at that! I was right!” 

 

Steve shoves him playfully. “Shut up!” He laughs. Sam does not, but instead continues on with his banter.

 

“Damn, man! It took you a while though, I mean… I think even Peggy knew back then. And she still went for you… She had guts.”

 

Steve’s happy expression is wiped clean from his face in an instant, as though it had never been there at all. His eyes become dark and glassy with pain. Sam regrets what he said immediately and mumbles an apology that Steve waves away with a tired hand. They continue to move in silence for a while before Sam speaks. 

 

“You know, if you ever wanted to talk to me about it,” Sam begins but abruptly shuts his mouth when he sees the look on Steve’s face. He looks understandably put off by the idea of detailing his feelings to his friend. Peggy was close to him and Steve feels some things deserve to remain intimately private. Masked behind the polite smile that follows is the hollow fear in his eyes, almost as if remembering what caused those feelings, or any conclusions he’s come to about his life during the War, scare him. As though he not only wishes to avoid reliving them, but he’s terrified to. 

 

“I’d--I’d rather not.” Steve offers, with something Sam thinks is meant to be a kind smile, but appears more like a grimace. He holds up his hands in surrender, letting Steve know he’s dropped the subject already. 

 

“It’s cool, man.” He replies, and then decides a change of subject would be good for them both. A competitive gleam comes into his eyes. “You don’t share your secrets with men who can outrun you.” He adds, a devilish grin growing on his face. Steve perks up at that, raising a single ochre-colored brow dubiously. 

 

“You really wanna go there?” He counters, wicked smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Because we’ll race, right now. See you  _ ‘on your left’ _ .” He adds before dashing off at a speed faster than Sam knows he could ever run in his life. Both men know Steve will win, and that this is only an attempt to take his mind off the things getting him down. Sam doesn’t mind a little friendly competition, even when he knows he’s bound to lose, if it will help his friend, and Steve is immensely grateful to him for snapping him out of his downtrodden haze and offering up the distraction. They run for the better half of the hour, and while Sam is sweating bullets and his legs feel numb, Steve barely seems winded after the first twenty minutes of the end of their laps. Sam is envious of this, and throws himself to the ground, laying back in the cool grass to stave off his jealousy.

 

“That’s a good running path, Steve. Thanks for showing it to me, man.” He says after a beat, still slightly gasping for breath. 

 

“No problem.” Steve replies, taking deep breaths himself. “We should do this again sometime, but I should be getting back in case Bucky wakes up soon.” He says by way of apology for his swift exit. The lemon yellow sun has just finishing rising above the thick pockets of dark charcoal clouds by the time he reopens the doors to the Tower.

 

Jarvis greets him upon his arrival and Steve says thank you back even though he is a machine.  _ It can’t hurt to be cordial to him, _ Steve thinks as his finger presses the button for the elevator. The button lights up with a dazzling blue glow and chimes when the mechanical contraption arrives. He steps inside and is swiftly escorted to his own floor. He enters their apartment and throws down his keys, clattering metal against the counter. He heads into the bedroom quietly, noticing Bucky’s still sleeping form curled into a small ball beneath the comforter. He bites his lip, looking at Bucky with his face aglow. He really does love this man.

Though he isn’t really tired from his excursion, he is sweaty. He peels off his damp clothing and leaves it in a little pile on the floor to deal with later, snagging a fluffy blue towel from the hallway closet as he makes his way to the bathroom to scrub the slick sheen of stickiness off of his skin. 

Bucky rouses himself around 7:30, waking up and rubbing his eyes with his prosthetic fist to the sound of merrily running water. Steve is in the shower, and Bucky vaguely recalls him mentioning going for a run with Sam while their friend is in town. He wonders how long Steve’s been home, then, because the Captain has been known to only take lengthy bathing sessions on occasion, so he must have gotten back around ten minutes ago. Bucky briefly has the thought that perhaps he should haul himself out of bed, stumble down the hallway, half-blind with eyes bleary from sleep, and join Steve beneath the falling stream. He only considers it for a fleeting moment before his little devious grin falls from his face. Steve is probably still expecting him to be asleep, and besides, they only just worked this whole thing out. He’s not sure how comfortable Steve would be with it anyhow, and so he burrows further beneath the sheets, soft, white, sateen-woven Egyptian cotton with simple decorative borders.

Tugging the navy comforter up to cover his shoulders, he reaches an arm over the edge of the mattress and retrieves a copy of the book he is currently reading. He had tried reading the _ Iliad _ , since Clint had told him it would be “therapeutic” or something because of its “relatable aspects”, but once he gotten to Achilles’ rage after Patroclus’ death that led to a massive (and graphic) killing spree, Bucky had to set the book aside and ponder where Clint drew the line between slightly-similar-might-cause-some-discomfort and actually triggering. Besides, he had been over it by the time he got to the sad fight scene with Hector. He’s trying his hand at reading  _ Frankenstein _ . Natasha and Bruce had both told him it was good as a read, and appreciated some feminist metaphor hidden within the storyline. He is still early on in the story, the Monster having just been rejected by Victor a second time during their confrontation in the Alps… But the whole idea of rejection by one you loved and the whole world viewing you as a monster seems yet again to be just too close to his own storyline. He has to wonder how a Black Widow he had trained to kill and the Hulk, for God’s sake, managed to get through this depressing novel. Needless to say, he isn’t giving it his full attention, the book hanging limply from his hand, in a loose grip that is reflective of his current disinterest. The Monster is whining about wanting his mate.  _ Yeah, me too, pal,  _ Bucky thinks bitterly as he awaits Steve’s return. 

Bucky actually feels himself become giddy when the click of the turning knob is followed by the sound of water spray hitting the drain cutting off. A few minutes later, Steve emerges with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist snugly, hand using another, smaller, cloth to roughly towel his hair dry. Bucky hastily tries to make it appear as though he has been innocently reading the entire time, and never once stopping to think indecent thoughts about Steve in the shower. He nonchalantly lifts his eyes from the page and is met with the broad expanse of Steve’s tanned shoulders, his paler chest and muscled abdomen, the delicate narrowing as it slides down the slope of his waist. Every inch is covered in small droplets of water Steve had missed when he carelessly dried off, trying to quickly return to his sleeping companion. But he finds him asleep no longer, and Bucky cannot help but to stare, though he pretends like he isn’t totally enthralled by the way the light dances across lean skin (Bucky might have to thank Stark for those ridiculous floor-to-ceiling windows and the dramatic lighting they provide) when Steve turns. Rogers doesn’t buy it for a minute, and tosses the smaller towel at Bucky teasingly, smirk on his face as he leans back against the old oak dresser behind him. 

 

“See something you like?” He asks casually, with a soft, lazy shrug of one shoulder. Bucky gives him the once over, eyes running along the length of his body and back up again before he tosses his head back as though he couldn’t care less. 

 

“Eh, not really, no.” He lies, having to bite his lip to secure his straight face. He is certainly anything but that right now, looking at Steve’s terrycloth-festooned figure presented with an easy flourish before him. Steve frowns at him disapprovingly, shaking his head as he moves to pull on a pair of (stolen) black cotton shorts Bucky is certain are  _ his, not Steve’s, _ before removing the towel to emerge fully clothed, much to Bucky’s utter disappointment. His partner flops down on the bed, laying with his knees touching the foot of the mattress, legs hanging off the end. His bare toes brush the floor, and yet he still manages to look graceful. Bucky chuckles softly to himself, and just for show, takes the small paperback copy in hand once more, and resumes his reading endeavor. 

He actually finds himself getting sucked back into the story, and is well lost within it for a while, as Steve has either dozed off or is lost in tranquil thought, unmoving and silent beside Bucky in the room. With a start, he notices Steve has unexpectedly crawled up the bed from his position at Bucky’s feet, rumpling the tangled sheets to curl beside him at the former Sergeant’s hip. Bucky snorts softly into the pages of his battered novel, licking his finger as he casually turns a page, pretending not to notice even as he rolls his eyes. Steve heaves himself up on his biceps, and promptly plops himself down on top of Bucky, who lets out an irritated growl and meets the Captain’s eyes. They are a clear blue-green as he inhales through his nose and barks out, “Steve… Get off.” in a gruff voice. 

 

Steve smirks at him, lips stretching across his chiseled jawline. “Make me, punk.” He murmurs, the challenge in a heated, low tone. Bucky accepts, shifting his body to try and throw Steve off. Steve only grins at him, as the move has enabled him to pin his boyfriend down, arms planted firmly on either side of Barnes’ face. Bucky huffs softly, his breath tickling Steve’s chin as he marks his place in the book and tosses it to the side.

 

“Alright, you.” He says thickly, squirming under Steve’s weight. “Move.” 

 

Steve purses his lips coyly, shutting his eyes in an amused manner as he shakes his head briefly. Bucky wriggles his arms against his chest and places his palms on Steve’s pecs, pushing upward in an attempt to knock the country’s emblem of freedom over. The Captain counteracts this, using all of his strength to force Bucky’s hands back down, pressing against the black cotton of his shirt. Bucky, no longer distracted by his reading, does not really resist and soon their faces are inches apart, Steve’s lips looming full in front of his vision. He bridges the short gap, pressing his lips to Bucky’s. They are soft and lush as he relaxes his arms, fully collapsing on top of Bucky, who barely notices at this point. His arms curl around Bucky’s sides in a tight grip, kissing him again and again like Bucky is forest air he can inhale, crisp and cool against his flushed skin. Bucky kisses back with just as much vigor, seeking out every corner of Steve’s mouth, until he can no longer breathe. Steve’s weight against him isn't aiding his lungs and in between nips at his bottom lip by the Captain's teeth he ekes out,  “Stop. Steve, stop. Get up.”

 

Still, he is laughing all the same so Steve allows him a deep breath before meeting their lips again. Bucky uses this to his advantage, leveraging his hips to flip them over so he is atop Steve now. Steve lets out a surprise grunt and combats this sneak attack. Soon the two are rolling over and around each other on their unkempt bed, wrestling in a mock fashion of the sport. Steve and Bucky are both laughing as they brawl, and instead of landing punches the Captain is dropping kisses all along the other’s body. They call out insults and jabs like the good old days, egging each other on even though most of what they say is smothered in the other’s flesh. Bucky drinks in all the nooks and crannies of Steve’s form, shining with a golden glow of the risen sun with something akin to divine grace. Steve presses his lips to Bucky’s body and leaves no spot unmarked, not even the  _ arm _ . There is no fear or repugnance in Steve Rogers eyes for this man, only ardent and wholesome admiration. Bucky thinks he can worry about the Monster and his mate just a little later. 

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So I walked away  
> All perfumed  
> Felt just the same  
> But brand new  
> Float away  
> Dangling  
> I'm just the same  
> But brand new to you..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! So here's another chapter because i set about writing some disney oneshots for my friends and remembered this fic existed... heh. Sorry if there's any mistakes, I read over all the chapters a final time before I post them, but its been a while since I divided this chapter and i only skimmed it for a final time. (If you catch anything, let me know, we won't be offended.) The first half of this was written by my co-author, who one day turned to me and "innocently" asked, "What do you think Steve would do if someone challenged his pride?" I answered, and then she said, "What about Bucky, like if he felt unneeded?" I got a lot of this from her at the time so I didn't think about it, but THEN i was presented with this chapter... So, yea the angst is my fault. I hate me too lol. I hope to finish this fic by the summer, I might cut down the plot more than originally intended but thats ok!!!! Right? I'm kinda the only one still working on it anyways... So.

The blue glow of the TV washes over the room as they lie on the couch, tangled up in each other's limbs. Bucky pulls his arms and legs out of the entanglement and begins to slide up the couch. Steve makes a small noise and grins. Bucky finally ends up parallel to Steve, hovering just above him. There’s a small moment when they just smile at each other, and then Steve’s reaching up and pulling Bucky to him. 

 

“I thought we were done for tonight,” Steve says, that smile lingering.

 

“Yeah, yeah, but,” Bucky finally allows Steve to pull him down, and they kiss slowly. There’s no agenda to it, no underlying need. It’s just soft and passionate, and everything that they’re both feeling. “But,” Bucky continues, “You know I would do  _ anything _ , for you, right?”

 

Steve laughs and runs hand through Bucky’s hair, still wild from their earlier activities. “I know,” he replies. He knows because Bucky has already given him more than what he had to offer.

“I mean it, though,” Bucky persists, “Anything. I would… I would move Earth and Heaven for you. I would steal the sun and stars out of the sky and bring them to you, if you asked.”

“Pretty sure the sun  _ is _ a star,” Steve kisses him again, “Who knew you were such a sap, Buck?”

“Am not,” he frowns.

“Are too. And I love you for it.”

“Okay. I’m a sap. So just… Just tell me what you want, okay? Anything you want, I’ll do it for you.” Bucky gestures vaguely in a random direction, “You want a box of pizza? You got it. You want a yacht? I can do that. A small country? Might take a while, but I’ll get it for you. How about Moldova? It’s nice this time of year.”

“Mmm…” Steve hums, amusement evident in his tone, “I think you can leave Moldova be. I’ve got all I ever wanted right here.”

Bucky smirks, “What, satellite TV?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of a home bigger than a shoebox. And also a cat. But the satellite TV’s a nice touch. And then, there’s always you.”

“Me.”

“Yeah, you. What do  _ you  _ want?”

“Mostly tickets to a Dodger game.”

“Really, now?” Steve returns Bucky’s smirk, “I figured you would’ve wanted a vacation home in the Andromeda Galaxy.”

Bucky drops his head down, burying it in Steve’s shoulder, “I think I’m good right here. Don’t even need those Dodger tickets. Long as you’re around, I’m happy.”

Steve hums again in quiet agreement. The blue light of the TV continues to flicker. Whatever’s playing on it is low enough that it faded to background noise a long time ago, and Steve isn’t too worried about Tony’s ability to handle the electricity bill, considering the tower runs on an arc reactor, so he feels no qualms about leaving the TV on as he falls asleep with Bucky draped over him. Forget about yachts and Moldova and large extraterrestrial bodies. He’s got his entire universe right here.

 

 

* * *

 

They don’t outright tell anyone at the tower. It’s none of their business, Steve says, and Bucky vehemently agrees. So what if he happens to hold Steve’s hand when they walk down the street. It doesn’t concern anyone else if he happens to sit ridiculously close to Steve when they watch movies on couches together. It really isn’t anyone else’s goddamn business if Steve presses hesitant, gentle kisses to the side of Bucky’s neck when he thinks no one is watching during the movie. Natasha is, but she just meets Bucky’s eyes and nods minutely. And if he happens to aggressively kiss Steve after he does something incredibly stupid (incredibly  _ Steve _ ) on a mission, none of them have the right to say a damn thing about it. Stark does start to make a strangled noise that simultaneously seems to convey shock, horror, and oddly enough, arousal. But he's abruptly cut off when Barton inconspicuously kicks him hard in the shin.

 

As Bucky and Steve are leaving the room, he hears Stark comment, "I think I just witnessed the first wet dream I ever had as a teenager."

 

"Please shut up." Banner replies.

 

“I need to go find Pepper.” Stark says, still sounding strained.

 

Someone squawks a little. Bucky can’t tell who, and he doesn't actually care because he and Steve are already halfway to the elevator. Steve's doing a very good job of trying to distract him, but he's still pissed. And he's the goddamn Winter Soldier, he knows how to keep his focus. "Steve," he says.

 

Steve just tugs on Bucky's sleeve a little and whines, mouthing at Bucky’s neck.

 

"No, Steve, seriously." He pulls away and forces the blond to meet his eyes. "You can't keep doing stupid shit like this. During the war, it was--I get why you did it then. You were the only one who could take those risks without the certainty of death, and it  _ had _ to be you. But now you're not. You're part of a team of  _ superhumans _ and professionals, and that means that they can take those risks now."

 

Steve sighs. Dramatic as always. "Don't tell me not to do the best that I can to help others.  _ Especially _ when innocent lives are at stake."

 

"I'll damn well tell you whatever the hell I want if you keep putting your own life in danger! You’re not indestructible!" Bucky replies, anger rising. "I can't--You know I've got your back. You know I do. But I'm never gonna be good enough to take down everything you decide to charge, Steve."

The blue in Steve's eyes is roiling in quiet fury now. "I'm not asking you to. I can fight my own battles."

 

Bucky cringes. This is an age-old dispute he is all too familiar with, and has always hated. Insulting Steve's capability is a sure-fire way to really get him angry. "I didn't mean it like that, Stevie. I'm just... I'm worried--"

 

"I don't need you babysitting me, Bucky! I'm a big boy now, I can watch out for myself! Besides, you just said this is a team thing now, why don't you let  _ them  _ keep an eye on me, if you think I'm so helpless!"

 

"Steve, I--"

 

"No, I know what it is. You don't trust them. And you don't trust me. You don't trust them to watch my back, and you don't think I can do it for myself. I don't need you to coddle me!"

 

There's a cold, sinking feeling in Bucky's chest. "Please don't say that. Don’t say you don't need me..." He pleads, softly.

 

"I don't, I’m not a child!" Steve snaps, glaring at him.

 

" _ Steven! _ " A sharp voice calls out, shock evident in the tone. For a wild second, Bucky almost mistakes it for Sarah’s voice. Natasha's standing a few feet away from them, eyes apparently boring holes into Steve's head. "Common area.  _ Now _ ." Small as she is, the tiny redhead is radiating rage.

 

Steve seems to be sufficiently intimidated by her and he shuffles into the elevator, looking chastised and a little shocked at his own words. Bucky doesn't blame him. Romanoff is terrifying. "Bucky..."

 

_ "Go."  _ Natasha snarls. The elevator doors slide shut. Then she turns to Bucky and the deadly outer shell melts away. She gently places a hand on his metal shoulder. "You know he didn't mean that."

 

Bucky laughs dryly, trying to tuck himself away and vanish into the wall, "Kinda sounded like he did."

 

"Do you want to sleep in Barton's room tonight? I'd offer up my own, but I'm heading to Santorini in an hour."

 

He nods and inhales deeply.

 

"I'll tell Clint to put some blankets on the couch. Go on and head up there. I'm going to give some strong words to Коньь в пальто upstairs."

 

Bucky shakes his head aggressively, "No, I don't think that's really necessary, Nat--" But it's too late, the elevator doors are already sliding shut again.

 

* * *

 

Natasha storms out of the elevator just as Steve has decided to quit pacing and settle on one of the couches. "In my defense, he treats me like--"

 

She doesn't even give him the chance to start. "If you didn't act like a five-year-old, maybe people wouldn't treat you like one! And don't give me that 'in my defense' bullshit! You don't get a defense here, Steve. That was absolutely inexcusable! I can't believe you! You rag on everyone else for upsetting him while he's 'fragile,' and then you go ahead and start yelling at him about how you don't need him! Maybe he could handle this shit from you back in Brooklyn in the ‘30s, but he’s gone through a lot since then!"

 

"Well, if he'd maybe put a little faith in me--" Steve interjects, tossing his head back incredulously. He knows this argument is stupid, because he acted out of turn, and hurt Bucky. He feels guilty, but he's being so defensive because inside he knows he’s always needed Bucky, but Bucky shouldn’t have to deal with his reckless bullshit alongside everything else he’s suffered. Not to mention, Bucky apparently feels Steve is incapable… And that hurt his pride, made him lash out. 

 

"Yeah, Steve, because the things he's been through have really shown him that others deserve to be trusted! He's trying already! He has more faith in you than he does in anyone else in this tower as it is. Barnes is doing his best. Rather than whining about the fact that you don't need your diaper changed anymore, you could throw him a bone every now and then! Think about when you lost him. How did you feel? Broken beyond repair? Don't you think he might have felt that way too? The only reason he worries so much is because you're the only good thing he has in his life right now. He's trying to be better _for you_ because he cares about you, and you're the only one who can help him regain himself! So of course he's going to try and keep you safe, especially considering the fact that you're an idiot who nevers knows when to back down!" She looks away briefly, as if to compose herself. When she looks back, she continues, “At least he cares, you know? When I… When it was me… I couldn’t even… Half the time, I hated Clint for getting me out. And the thing about getting out is that it doesn’t happen all at once. It’s a process, and right now, he still needs to feel like he has a purpose, a directive. Don’t you get that for him, it’s always gonna be _you?_ He needs you to need _him_ , and he just wants you to be safe, Steve. Господь знает, he needs you, and you need him too, even if you won’t admit it.”

 

Steve is frozen in place, resolutely not looking at her eyes that have begun to water. He knows she’s right. He knows it. But his pride has been wounded, and he just  _ can’t _ . He doesn't handle that well, and he's so used to being in the right that he cringes at the thought of admitting he was wrong, but Bucky deserves that. He knows he has to do it. 

 

Natasha’s expression hardens and she glares daggers at him as if she knows what he’s thinking. She probably does. “You fucked up, Steve. Now go apologize to him. I don’t want Clint to have to hear him sobbing into the pillows at four in the morning, like last time.”

 

Neither does Steve, because Natasha was right. Of course he needs Bucky and obviously, he cares about his partner preparing to spend the night alone in the room of someone he barely trusts. He heads towards the door, and she follows, planning to head the other way to prepare for her next mission, wherever she said it was. 

“Hey,” He adds suddenly, and she turns slowing, gazing at him with question in her eyes as to what he wants. She blinks, staring at him as he twists around the words in his mind. “Thanks, ‘Tasha. For your help. I--I needed someone to give it to me straight.” He stutters out awkwardly, feeling embarrassed for getting flustered over showing the intimidating spy gratitude.

 

She nods once, slowly, a soft smirk as if to say, “I know.” What she says instead is, “You’re welcome. And don’t forget Steve,” She trails off to meet his eye seriously. He waits expectantly for her answer. “That you're an idiot.”

 

He rears back, bewildered, with a disgruntled frown. He is affronted by her comment. She smiles at him, laughing quietly.”Alright, you're  _ both  _ idiots.” She amends, holding up her hands in mock surrender. “Be idiots who love each other, not ones who fight, okay?”

 

Steve nods in response, opening his mouth for one last word of advice. “Be safe out there.” He states, and something in her gaze shifts, almost… sentimental. Then she shakes her head, and it’s gone. 

 

“Thanks.” She replies. “Don’t be stupid.” And with that, she's darting off smoothly down the hall to her room, ready to jet off to who knows where. He huffs in response and then trudges toward the elevator, heading for the second residential level. When he gets to Clint’s room, he knocks on the door. 

 

“Bucky?” He calls. There’s silence from within, except for the sounds of Clint’s dog shuffling to the door and barking. “Bucky, please talk to me,” He implores after a minute.

 

“Captain Rogers,” JARVIS' automated voice says, clipped vowels floating down from the unseen speakers of the PA system that runs throughout the Tower. “I’m sorry, but Sergeant Barnes would like me to inform you that your presence is not… currently welcome.” He informs the Captain delicately. If he wasn’t a machine, Steve could swear even JARVIS must feel the awkwardness of the situation. 

 

Steve sighs as he collapses against the locked door, back pressed against the dark wood, running a hand through his sweaty hair, tangling the locks even more than they already are from the wind in the air. “Yeah, I figured. Just… Let him know I was wrong, and I’m sorry, okay? And that I didn’t mean what I said, I was just being a loudmouth as usual. And… I’ll try to stop being as reckless… I… That I _do_ need him.”

 

“Certainly, Sir.” JARVIS responds briskly, and then ceases to say anything more. From the muffled, accented noise coming from the other side of the walls, Steve can guess that the virtual butler is relaying his message to the man huddling in seclusion beyond the door. He can only hope Bucky will accept it and come out when he's ready. There is nothing more to be done if Bucky doesn't want it. 

 

With a final nod, Steve returns to the elevator to retire to his room for the night. He knows he won’t be sleeping without Bucky’s presence there to ground him. But if Bucky doesn’t want to speak to him, it’s the least he can do, giving him some space. Just as he’s settling down on one side of their bed, which seems so empty without Bucky’s weight curled against him, preparing to spend a night staring at the shadows on the ceiling and replaying the harsh words he said to Bucky because they are preferable to the nightmares he knows will resurface if he does happen to drift asleep, the alarm sounds. It is a harsh, metallic shrill that echoes through every room on every floor, loud enough to burst an eardrum. There’s no way anyone slept through it. When he dashes out into the hall in nothing but a pair of striped pajama bottoms, a red light is flashing an ominous blood hue down the corridor. The signal means a meeting in the common area, effective immediately. He hurries down there to find a grumbling, half-lucid Stark trying to look petulant as he dozes off against Pepper’s shoulder. Sitting in one of the chairs is Clint, who stares at the wall with a weary gaze and annoyed gleam in his eyes, wanting nothing more than for this to be over. Banner is sitting, tranquil, on the couch, calmly clutching a cushion in his arms as he tries to keep his cool. His hair is rumpled and his eyes tired. Natasha, has of course, flown out on her own mission already, and is absent from this little assembly. Thor is home in Asgard, dealing with Asgardian affairs of state, or something similar. And there, leaning against the counter looking pensive and trying to avoid his stare, is Bucky. Steve almost chokes on the breath he’s been holding, letting out a quick sigh of relief. He was worried the man would ignore the warning and stay inside, allowing some danger to befall him.

The large plasma screen mounted on the far wall springs to life, lighting up with a blue glow as JARVIS provides visuals, mission plans and an explanation for the unwarranted, unwanted, impromptu wake up call. Everyone files sleepily over the the seating area, and Steve awkwardly discovers the only available spot is beside his angry partner. Steve truly wishes he could be secretly pleased over this stroke of luck, but Bucky hadn’t wanted his presence earlier, preferring to stew in silence and be left alone, and Steve wants to respect that. He had wanted to give the man his space, but now, here they were, pressed against each other on a small but expensive couch in the early hours of the morning, nothing between them but a tastefully color coordinated throw pillow. Bucky looks over at him with cold, impassive eyes, and Steve gives a small, apologetic smile bashfully. Bucky blinks as this registers, and his eyes soften. Steve decides to go out on a limb and try talking to him.  

 

“Bucky, I--” He begins, but Bucky stops him with a firm, curt nod of his head, a few longer brown locks escaping the small bun at the nape of his neck. 

 

“Save it, Steve. I heard what you said at the door… it’s fine. It wouldn’t be the first time you acted like an idiot.” He smiles, seeming to forgive him, at least a little. Steve chuckles in response, but freezes when Bucky covers his hand with his own. Steve’s on his left, and so his fingers grasp at metal. They aren’t cold, they’re very warm conductors of body heat, and he knows Bucky can “feel” him through neuro-sensors throughout the technology. It’s just that Bucky is very reserved about his prosthetic appendage, and rarely uses it for physical contact. Steve bites back a smile, front tooth digging into his pink lower lip. 

 

“Hey!” snaps Stark, bitter and sleep-deprived. He glares at them vehemently. “Would you mind keeping the reunion on hold until after the mission debrief?”

 

Steve coughs, trying to disguise a laugh, face falling into a neutral, concentrated expression. “Of course.” He declares seriously, eyes going to the screen. His jaw instantly sets, teeth grinding together in silent fury, and his eyes harden with a cold resolve as they land on a file photo of Brock Rumlow, now aka Crossbones.

 

“Wait, Rumlow’s alive?” The Captain asks in disbelief. A building fell on the man, and everyone believed him to be dead. Steve remembers all too well his last escapade with the man in an elevator, and he only wishes he’d had more time to snap his neck, cruel as it may be. Bucky follows his line of sight and he too feels a surge of anger for the man who takes his orders from the higher ups in HYDRA. JARVIS announces that the man is planning something in New York City, and he’s already begun breaking into old SHIELD facilities whose addresses were leaked along with the rest of the organization’s database by Natasha last year. 

 

“I believe, sir, that he is hoping to acquire either samples forgotten to time and preserved by their disuse, or the instructions for production of a product called, “Midnight Oil.” JARVIS cordially informs all present in the room, addressing his creator, and Tony visibly pales. Steve goes rigid beneath Bucky’s grip and feels his stomach drop. HYDRA with Midnight Oil? Dear Lord. Tony, now rocketed awake by this anxious reveal, turns to Steve, wild eyes landing on his own in a hysterical sort of shock. Seeing a similar fear in Roger’s eyes, he speaks. 

 

“You know what it is, then?” He inquires, voice hoarse. 

 

Steve nods grimly. “I heard about it from Peggy… When Leviathan tried to use it to take out Times Square back in the late forties.” Her stories told of a narrow prevention of a larger massacre after the vicious gas was used upon patrons at a movie theatre. Even she, strong woman she was, got choked up describing the gory battle left in its wake. 

 

Tony bits the inside of his cheek, nodding in return. “My father never mentioned it, of course, but I’ve read the file.” He shakes his head another time, seeming to be still flabbergasted by the idea of one of their largest foes having it in their possession yet again. 

 

“So, what? He’s going after lighter fluid?” Banner chimes in, looking as lost as Bucky and Barton, sitting in silence, respectively, wondering what the hell these men were discussing with such apprehension in their wavering tones.

 

Tony barks a bitter, short laugh. “You wish, buddy. Midnight Oil,” He goes on, pulling up a visual on screen. “A gas my father invented at military request, supposed to keep soldiers awake for long periods of time on duty. The formula didn’t develop correctly, but they raided his office and stole the prototype. They used it in a battle, and it inspired extremely violent and murderous tendencies in the soliders. There was almost inescapable, animalistic bloodshed. My father locked it up to prevent it ever happening again… It was never his intent for it to kill.”

“So what does Rumlow want with it?” Bucky asked, looking back at the file on screen with grainy police images without color of the crime scene at the theatre. The floor is almost consumed by dark, black puddles. There is a sinking feeling in his stomach. 

 

“His purpose for acquiring such a commodity is unknown, Sergeant Barnes.” JARVIS answers, switching files. He brings up a mission plan on screen, showing coordinates where they believe Rumlow’s current location is, and the amount of time it would take to get there by car. He is in the lower town.

 

“Does it really matter?” Clint shrugs, scowling at the screen, “It can’t be anything good. I’ve heard he’s one nasty son of a bitch.”

 

Bucky’s hand clenches around Steve’s. “You don’t know the half of it, pal.” He mutters.

 

“We leave within the hour.” Stark concludes, switching off the screen, and standing. He leans on Pepper as he heads back to his penthouse on the top level. “Cap, suit up. You too, Barton.” 

 

Cap looks at Stark, who seems worn out. Barton looks better, but then again he’s more used to going without sleep without the adrenaline rush of a new invention to keep him going. Even so, they’ve only just returned from one mission. “I could… I can take on Rumlow by myself, guys, you don’t--” He is interrupted by Bucky’s brusque laugh. 

 

“Not a chance, Rogers.” The former assassin deadpans dryly, pulling him back down into his seat by the arm, so that they can sort this out before he gets any more stupid ideas and rushes off into battle. Barton nods, removing his legs from the coffee table and hunching over onto his knees. 

 

“Buck is right, Cap. The last thing we need is America’s favorite superhuman jacked up on a deadly hallucinogen running wild around the capital of New York State.” Clint adds, shooting him a determined glance that lets Rogers know he's coming whether he likes it or not. "I'll have your back." 

 

"Me too." Stark adds stubbornly, wanting to be included. "This stuff was my father's tech, I've read the files and seen many of the plans and similar formulas. You'll need me to help you process or disengage anything you might find. But biochemics aren't exactly my field of expertise, which is why Banner is coming too, if he wishes." Tony adds, placing a kind hand on the small man's shoulder. He darts up with a joyful smile. 

 

"Me? Really? Just for science?" Bruce chokes, floored with appreciation. Stark nods, shooting him a reserved grin. 

 

"Yeah." From behind his shoulder, Pepper winks at the scientist. 

 

Bucky, who has remained silent this whole time, suddenly feels it is the right moment to speak, breaking in to declare that he will be attending the mission as well. His voice is clear and stern, leaving no room for argument in his commanding tone. Everyone in the room flinches, and Steve's face scrunched into a discomforted frown.

 

"Buck," He starts as gently as possible, not wanting to stir things up again after they just worked it out. "Are you sure you're ready for that? A mission, so soon, without any prior knowledge or prep... With someone close to HYDRA?" Steve puts forth, and there is no trace of doubt in his words, only concern. He doesn't doubt his lover's capability to complete the mission assigned him, but he doesn't want it to trigger anything or put Bucky in danger. Bucky understands this, but disagrees with a shake of his head. He holds up a confident hand.

 

"Look, I have the most experience with Crossbones. He was an assassin just like me. I've worked with him on missions before, I know his orders, tactics, strategies. I know who he answers to. How they assign missions, how this guy fights. I know weaknesses and most of all, he may still trust me. Maybe he doesn't know I've deserted HYDRA. To him, I could just be MIA after SHIELD's collapse. That element of surprise may win this." Bucky says to everyone, glancing around the room, satisfied. They all seem pretty convinced that he should go as well. He’s already resolved that he’s never letting Steve out of his sight again.

 

“Hey, don’t forget, I worked with him too… He was part of my TAC-team with SHIELD. I know how he works.” Steve protests.

 

Bucky raises an eyebrows, “You’ve seen him holding back for SHIELD. I doubt you’ve ever seen what he can really do. You need me there.”

 

Steve still looks disconcerted. "But is it safe?" He goes on to demand, inquiring about the one thing he truly cares about. Bucky brushes it off, laughing lightly to quell his fears. 

 

"I can handle myself in a fight, Stevie." He challenges, eyes stopping in their path across the room, present company neglected as he levels his gaze with the Captain's. His pupils are wide and they glint wickedly as he tips his chin down, line of vision flicking up to Steve's own stare. His eyes are a treacherous ice blue, light from the fluorescent lamps shining in his midnight black pupils. "Can you?" 

 

* * *

It takes Steve less than twenty minutes to get into his suit, grabbing his shield from its place in the artillery room and securing it on his back. Bucky goes with him, throwing on clothing similar to what he used to wear as the Soldier, flexing his new arm, gearing up to fight. His hair has completely fallen out of its ties, and it hangs loosely in his face. Steve turns around to find Bucky waiting beside him, various forms of weaponry strapped to his person. He can make out the place where a small knife is sheathed, the location where he’ll holster a gun. He’s got extra bullets strung across his body like jewelry, and even a few grenades. 

 

“You really think you’ll need all that?” He inquires, voice lax. He tries to smile like it’s a joke, but it’s killed by the impending sense that maybe he  _ will  _ need to fight that creeps around them like a choking darkness. Neither of them wants it to be this way, but Steve won’t tell him what he can’t do, and Bucky has to protect him. His hand lifts, fingers rising to brush a strand of hair from Bucky’s eyes, tucking it back behind his left ear. The gesture is tender, giving away the mixed emotions swarming inside of the Captain beyond his composed demeanor. His hand shakes slightly, wavering, and his fingers clench against it. He lets his hand linger there for a moment, resting against Bucky’s cheek, and the other man brings his hand up to cover it with his own, pressing it to his lips. 

Steve makes a small noise in the back of his throat, rushing swiftly up against him, crushing him in a lengthy embrace. Bucky’s good hand moves to cup the back of his head, brushing through the short hair at the base of his neck. 

 

“Stevie…” He admonishes him, voice muffled against the Captain’s shoulder. “I can do this.”

 

Steve is about to reply when Barton knocks on the door, bow in hand, to inform them that it is time to go. Since the location is close, they cram into a an armored truck to drive over there. Steve and Bucky are pressed together in the back of the black van. Banner drives, and Barton sits shotgun, bow loaded at the window, trained eyes watching for signs of enemy attack. Bucky watches their back, instincts drilled into him for decades taking over. His mind runs combat moves, figuring out ways to keep them safe. He is prepared for any sort of attack, it was his duty as the Winter Soldier. Steve watches their back, and Tony keeps them informed of aerial attackers as he flies behind them in his suit. So far, the skies are clear and no one on any rooftops is planning to shoot them down, which is reassuring. He plans to shut down the suit and follow them into the building where JARVIS thinks he’s pinpointed Rumlow’s location once they arrive. 

 

“Are you sure we should be doing this?” Steve begins, posing the question that’s been nagging at the back of his mind. “Going to fight a specialized assassin over crazy death gas in the middle of the night at an undisclosed location without notifying Fury? Or any of the remaining SHIELD agents? Does ‘Tasha even know about this? What if we end up destroying the city like the last time?” He protests. 

 

Stark’s response over the car’s speaker system is quick and blunt. “I don’t see why we have to, we’re taking precautions as a team and if anything happens, JARVIS will handle us. They’ll find out soon enough once we call in a captured criminal, anyways.” Steve can practically hear his frown as it forms on his face. “The Avengers were never SHIELD. We weren’t then, I don’t see why we have to be now. SHIELD is down. We’ll just have to learn to start managing on our own.” He concludes, swerving to avoid a billboard. They should be there soon. “And all that business at the Triskelion gives me the feeling that you're doing a pretty good job of that.” 

 

Steve nods, though he remains apprehensive. Not that he’s never broken the rules before, but the repercussions for not calling this in seem too big to ignore. Not just from Coulson, but consequences for risking their team’s safety.They pull up a block away from the building. It’s around two in the morning, and the streets are silent and dark. There is no one else around this abandoned building, crumbling brick and creaking interior. There are cracks all throughout the concrete structure, and the large  **CONDEMNED** sign hangs from a corner on the door, black letters jumping out like a sickening omen of their futures. They creep down the street, crouching behind the side of the exterior, surveying location before they make their ambush through the back entrance. They all review the plan one more time. Banner is waiting around the next block in the car. If they don’t return within the hour, he is to signal JARVIS to get help. Barton and Steve are to head down into the basement of the building, scanning the perimeter for any traces of Midnight Oil, or Rumlow. Bucky and Tony are going to take the upper levels of the building, Tony carrying the assassin in case the flooring isn’t stable. If they find anything, they radio back to the rest of the team. 

They can do this, Steve feels optimistic. It's just Rumlow… and there's four of them, plus Bruce should he feel threatened enough to Hulk out. Steve would love to see Rumlow try to fight the man that slammed a theoretical  _ god _ into the ground, repeatedly. Confirming their understanding, they break apart. Tony, suit on stealth mode, jets silently above them, Bucky swinging uncomfortably in his metal grip. He does not look pleased, but the man sets his jaw with a grim resolve to get this done as soon as possible. Steve watches them soar up to the higher stories until they are no longer in his line of sight. He wishes he could listen for their survival, but the suit is virtually soundless as they ascend. Then, the Captain pushes all thoughts of personal emotion from his mind, forgetting the worried note in Bucky's eyes... or trying to at the damn least. He shakes himself out of his emotional fog, and resigns himself to the mission at hand. Unlike the window Stark's rocket boosters are going to propel them through, Rogers follows Barton as he creeps down the side of the front entrance, on the backs of his heels first, until he discovers a gap in the dry wall. He shoves himself throw, collapsing his bow, and beckons with a hand swathed in dark leather for Steve to follow. The bulky soldier has some difficulties passing through the dusty crawl space, forcing his broad shoulders through. His uniform emerges peppered in white dust, and he clucks his tongue regretfully, knowing Phil will be disappointed, and probably order him a new one that he's already drawn up designs for. Steve cringes internally, before ridding himself of baseless thoughts and meeting Barton's eyes in the surrounding gloom of the inside. 

Barton flicks his gaze to the left before proceeding and Steve follows him. They unfurl thin sheets of plastic and other technological materials, placing the flexible strips over their mouths, noses and chins. The sheets immediately mold to the shape of their jaw lines, and the gadget evolves into more complex machinery, forming lightweight filters should they be exposed to any gas. Stark, having designed them, was happy to share the product with them all, promising them that it had been tested and known to work. Clint scouts out the area, motioning for Steve to follow him down a drop in the aged flooring. Dusting themselves off, they land in the remains of what was once an old stairwell, small pebbles of cement and various bits of rubble and refuse littering the space. The steps themselves lie in degrading chunks, some run through with a spider web network of hairline cracks, some deep enough to have sprouted little colonies of dingy green weeds in between. Footsteps falling silent, they descend into the lower bowels of the building. The basement is a network of small chambers and tunnel systems, and they hunt through these in the dark, Steve's enhanced vision landing on none lurking in the weary shadows that stretch across the ground to lay at their feet, gray rectangles of reflected patterns of the trees above, branches bending in the cool night air. Light, both natural or otherwise, filters in through holes in the structure. Suddenly, there is a loud explosion to their right and they dash towards it, coming up on a corner smothered in grey smoke, clearing away. There crouches Rumlow, brushing away remains with his fingers, unearthing something buried beneath the concrete ground. He retrieves a silver tinted metal cylinder, the thermos like container altogether very plain and unmarked. The metal is dented, once professionally shining, but now dirty and scratched up, the reflection murky. 

 

"Midnight Oil." Steve breathes in awe, and Brock's head snaps to attention, beady gaze falling on the super soldier. The man is barely recognizable. He looks nothing like his file photo. His face is marred with scar tissue running along his forehead and down his nose. Scars from stitches run at jagged angles down his jawline and beneath one eye. The skin of his face, neck and hands is blotchy and red. It looks crisp and gleams in the light, the swirling pattern of burned flesh deep shades of pink and maroon. What hair he has left is cropped close to the scalp, the mere black stubble doing little to hide the fact that he is burned, bruised and marked down his neck and onto his back. HYDRA could bring him back to life, it seems, but they could not make him whole again. They seem to do that to many of their agents. 

 

Without thinking, Steve throws himself upon the assassin, body weight knocking him to the floor with a heavy thud. He thrashes beneath Steve, crying out in an ugly voice, the containment vessel flying from his fingers, and rolling across the floor. He screams again, lunging for it as he tries to wrestle himself from Steve's grip, attempting to kick him off and roll over to the capsule. Steve thinks quickly and acts fast, foot darting out to kick the bottle over to Hawkeye who catches it beneath his boot, pressing down to keep it firmly in place as Steve lands a hit to Brock's face, but receives a blow to his side that allows Rumlow to break free and jump to his feet once again. Clint is about to pick up the vessel, but Steve is trying to pin Rumlow down by the shoulders, and his bow has already snapped to attention with a frighteningly sharp  _ Crack _ ! It sits steady beneath his calmly waiting fingers, already loaded and ready to fire. In his rush, he had grabbed the first arrow he had brushed his fingertips against in his multitude of various types of arrows sitting in his diverse quiver. 

Leveling his gaze, he huffs in a breath before releasing the shot and letting it fly. Whizzing past Steve's right ear, it grazes Brock's forearm, as he is currently trapped in a nursing embrace with Rogers, limbs twisting above their heads as they lock horns. It hits the ceiling with a dazzling combustion, a huge boom resounding throughout the mostly empty space once again, fragile infrastructure already shaking from the last explosion. Clearly Barton had selected one of his detonation arrows by chance.The entire room quakes as a large hole opens up in the above level, a large gaping maw of blankness with a few chords and wires dangling from its expansive edge. Rumlow's gaze shoots towards the exposed network, and he seizes the opportunity to use Steve's surprise to his advantage, slamming his elbow into the Captain's jaw. Steve rears back, hand moving to brush along the tender bruise already forming beneath the surface of his skin. He knows on a less enhanced man, the blow would have broken his jaw. Rumlow backflips away in a sudden motion, reflexes so quick they barely see his form flying in a strong arc away from them. He lands with a firm smack of his combat boots against the floor, legs crouching as he springs up, nimble hands latching onto the wiring. He uses it as a rope or ladder, arm muscles bulging as he hoists himself through the hole. Gathering their senses, Clint sheaths his weapon and he and Steve snap into action, Clint stooping down to gather the containment vessel of Midnight Oil sitting at his feet. They race after the HYDRA agent, feet clattering against the concrete, stirring up dust from the explosions that rocked the building only moments before. Steve assumes Tony and Buck are attempting to radio in, but down here their signal is cut off by what seems to be age old reception scrambling equipment hidden in what's left of the wall, and so their desperate inquiries go unheeded and unheard. They don't yet know that the duo has stumbled upon Brock, nor the causes of the dual explosions. Steve launches himself into the air, rising up to pass through the hole and fling himself over the edge to land on the floor of the level above just in time to see that Rumlow has already gotten to his feet and is running up the stairwell leading to the higher floors. He curses, motioning for Clint, pulling himself through the gap in the ceiling, to continue pursuit. Steve tries to patch back into comms as they ascend, pushing through the crackling static to hone in on a signal to Tony. 

 

"We found him in the lower levels!" He cries out, running along the edge of the wall as they follow the man up the stairs. "He's heading up towards you, and we're following so cut him off and we'll get him from behind!" Clint nods at their plan of action, moving to load his bow again and cock it, poised and ready to strike Crossbones down. 

 

"On it now." Tony replies, voice sounding distant but concentrated as he monitors the scanners within it helmet displaying scans for signs of mobile life. "I'm trying to track his travel pattern but he's evading my signal...are you sure he said he was going up the stairs?" The billionaire superhero inquires, trying to recalculate his data from within the suit. 

 

JARVIS pipes up, informing Mr. Stark that Rumlow is using a disabling device that removes his location from any scans trying to pick up his signal and that he should be able to clear the wireless transmission infiltrating Stark tech in a few moments. Tony nods, relaying the message to Bucky, still dangling from his metal grip, iron hands locked beneath the man's armpits. They are in one of the highest levels of the building, the room large and dark, marked only in some places by scraps of dingy paper, or crushed beer cans likely discarded by unruly teenage trespassers. Tony flies a low distance above the floor, Bucky's feet almost brushing the ground beneath them. A noise above them makes them both glance upward, and suddenly Tony is knocked out of the air by a falling figure, waiting crouched in the ceiling beams, lying in wait to attack. Rumlow pounces on them, gloved hands gripping to the metal of the suit, and Tony crashes to the floor, plummeting down to land on his stomach, Bucky dropping out of his grip and sliding down to slam into the eastern wall to the right, narrowly avoiding sailing through a large open space in the brick, nothing but a rusted guardrail for him to grab onto. Rumlow flips over, getting to his feet quickly and falling over onto Stark, pinning him underneath his venomous grip. They struggle, swinging at each other in an attempt to get free, Rumlow's face red and twisted into a snarl as he screams at Tony. 

 

"Where is the sample, Stark?" He spits, bending Tony's wrist backwards, metal in the suit groaning in protest before Tony tears his arm away. 

 

"Uh, I don't know man...you forgot it downstairs." He responds casually, voice echoing with an electronic tinge as it is dispatched through the speaker system inside the Iron Man suit. He kicks out at the back of Rumlow's knee, and the man rolls over, into a crouching position, backing Stark up against the corner behind them. 

 

"What do you know about the dosage?" He cries, dodging a blast from Tony's palm. "Is it for anyone? Does weight factor in?"

 

Tony frowns within the suit, confused as to what his motive is for asking these. "What? Why can't the brilliant scientists at HYDRA figure out how to murder innocent people themselves?" He shoots back, anger in his voice.

 

"We can't! It was your estranged daddy who spent his time creating something to cause death!" He sneers, and Tony's reactor practically glows with fury. At his back, Bucky gets to his feet, wiping blood from a gash on his brow, arm whirring to life with its enhancements, ready to fight. Brock hunches his shoulders, turning on his heel to face him. He drops a low whistle from his dark lips, shaking his head.

 

"Well, well, well...I had my mission. My orders were clear-collect anything pertaining to the sample. Return immediately to begin trials. But this is so much better. They'll love me for this!" He mutters, fingers twitching as he prepares himself to incapacitate and return Bucky to HYDRA. Bucky knows Rumlow may have failed by losing the sample, but the punishment will be nothing like the usual repercussions if he hauls in the long lost Winter Soldier, fit with an arm chock full of Stark Tech improvements. He lunges for Bucky, nails grazing the side of Barnes' cheek. 

 

"You're a long way from home. Time to come back; they're very displeased to have lost one of their greatest weapons." Rumlow says, circling around the other man. "Bet they'll make sure you never even remember the Captain existed this time!" He taunts, egging him on. 

 

Bucky snarls, nasty grimace pulling back his lips as he clenches his teeth. His arm rears forward, catching Rumlow across the neck as he pounces on him. Rumlow moves to catch him in the jaw with his fist, but Bucky dodges it and Rumlow’s fist slams into the floor instead of Bucky’s face. He growls in pain and Bucky uses the opportunity to counter the move with an uppercut, knuckles crunching against Brock’s jaw. He can hear bone shatter. 

 

“I am not,” He seethes, breath hitching as he inhales heavily, body taut with anger and slight panic. “Ever going back with you.” He growls, moving to hit Rumlow again, hoping he’ll black out so that the man will shut up. He can’t handle hearing it, even the mere thought of going back to HYDRA now makes him want to scream. Rumlow chuckles, eyes glittering. 

 

“We can’t always get what we want, now can we?” He asks, almost casually, before locking his legs around Bucky and flipping them over again.They roll around on the floor for a moment before there is no more floor to roll on: they’ve gone over the edge and before he knows it, the wind is whipping Bucky’s hair up as they fall from the building. Stark watches as the two heavy men easily break through the rusted barrier of the aging railing, screaming out, 

 

“Barnes!” before he hears them hit the scaffolding for the fire escape about five stories down. They land in the rickety wrought-iron stairwell, and he peers through the gap to see Bucky has landed on his back, Rumlow letting him take the fall. Bucky’s skull has collided with the metal structure, which groans beneath the impact. Rumlow begins to lower the ladder and climb down to the street. He looks back up at Bucky with an extremely pleased grin which does not give Tony a good feeling. Unable to even speak as he watches Bucky stand after an injury he probably shouldn’t have woken up from, Steve’s answering inquiries about their location, and what that crash was, fall on deaf ears. JARVIS takes over, replying that Rumlow and Barnes fell through a hole in the building. Steve’s stomach drops and he runs harder up the stairs, leaving Clint behind him. He refuses to let that man literally fall into HYDRA’s hands again. 

Bucky turns and looks down to Rumlow expectantly, awaiting orders. Stark narrows his eyes with a frown… Something about his demeanor has changed. 

 

“Come on, Asset, we haven’t got all day.” Rumlow tries, muttering under his breath as he climbs, and just as he had hoped, Bucky begins to docilely follow him down. 

 

“ _ Fuck… _ ” Stark curses under his breath, and Steve realizes that he won't make it in time. He’s still below Tony, and so he veers sharply right at the next floor and crashes through the stairwell window. They aren’t high up, and he latches onto the fire escape ladder hanging just above his head before he falls the few feet to the sidewalk below him. He can see Rumlow and Bucky descending and he drops down, waiting for them. When they reach the last rung, they land to face him on the empty nighttime pathway. Rumlow’s stance is casual, relaxed, his hands clasped in front of him in a military style pose. He cranes his neck, grin peeking out from beneath the shadows as his neck audibly cracks. 

 

“Soldier,” He murmurs, voice low. “Attack.”  _ Shit _ . 

 

Bucky flings himself forward at Steve, landing blows so quickly the man barely has time to hold up his shield to block himself. Eventually, he blocks one move too suddenly, and sends Bucky flying backwards against the wall of the building. From behind him, he can hear Tony and Clint gearing up to aid the fight, but before they have the chance, Bucky is shaking his head, hand moving to the back of his skull where the wall impacted him. His eyes are no longer cloudy, and he looks up in confusion and pain. 

 

“Steve? Was I… Fighting you?” 

 

It is silent, and then Rumlow curses and rushes off into the night, Clint trailing after him. 

 

Steve is quick to hold up his hands, denying it all. “No, you weren’t.. I mean not on purpose. He did something to you, Buck, he must’ve!” Steve protests, while Tony is radioing in to Banner and letting him know the full situation. 

 

Bucky shoves Steve’s hands back, trapping them against his chest. “I was. We were...he didn't do anything to me. I  _ forgot _ ! I forgot you, and this mission, my team… Myself.” His voice sounds broken even to his own ears, angry shouting echoing through the silent city streets. His blood feels like it’s racing through him a million miles a minute at temperatures only found on the sun, and suddenly, it’s all too much. He’s stiflingly frustrated and shocked with himself, and he can't breathe right. He pushes Steve back, running down in the direction he last saw Rumlow go. He isn’t dealing with this now; if he has to be his old self again, then he’s finishing his mission.  

 

Steve tries to follow Bucky, but before long the man has run down too many narrow alleyways in the dark. Even he doesn’t know all of the city’s crevices, and he resolves to get back inside the van with the others and hope Bucky makes contact soon. They return to the Tower, and Stark seals away the canister, waiting to decide whether or not they should surrender it to Coulson in the morning. Since SHIELD was not informed of this escapade, there is no tedious mission debrief, and everyone gratefully hauls themselves off to bed, except Steve. He returns to their rooms feeling lost and unhappy and lays in wait the entire night for Bucky to come home. He doesn’t. 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There's a part of me you'll never know  
> The only thing I'll never show
> 
> Hopelessly, I'll love you endlessly  
> Hopelessly, I'll give you everything  
> But I won't give you up  
> I won't let you down  
> And I won't leave you falling  
> If the moment ever comes
> 
> It's plain to see it's trying to speak  
> Cherished dreams forever asleep..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I met Natasha at Disneyland for Summer of Heroes, and I didn't know she was someone you could actually meet, I thought they just put her in the commercial for kicks, so I actually started crying when I realized there was a line for photos bc she is my Mother. She told me I could just forget college and join SHIELD as an agent with her, so I'll be writing this next chapter from Coulson's "BUS." Anyways this chapter has some of her backstory so I felt it appropriate.

Bucky eventually lets himself revert back to his training, to the habits ingrained into his muscles, and he falls into place, silently following Rumlow across the city. After a while, he realizes the man means to leave the state, crossing over into New Jersey. It’s been too long without him coming back to the Tower, and he knows leaving New York without letting Steve know would be much too cruel. He has to get in touch somehow before he leaves, but he will be leaving. He’s spent too much time alone with his memories of all the things the organization has done to him without returning to give them a little hell of his own. He wants revenge now. It was much too easy for his Winter Soldier conditioning to fall back into place, especially after such a minor injury to his head. The thought of all the other ways that demon could be brought back terrifies him. It seems much too simple for someone to get his training reinstilled in his mind as the dominant program of action. He’s mad at HYDRA, sure, but even more angry at himself for letting it be that accessible. It’s his own fault for being so damn vulnerable. 

If Bucky cannot take his anger out on himself through self-destruction, he will take it out on them with his fists. He’ll burn the whole damn place down if he has to in order to make them feel his pain. Even then, they’d probably need a lot more than just that by way of retaliation. HYDRA stole so much away from him: his life, his love, his duty, his humanity, not to mention his ability to live a normal life. He’ll hunt down every last member of this crooked organization, just as he’d planned to back during the War. And every single one of them will know what it is like to feel that sort of loss; to have something precious robbed from their hands. They’d played him as the villain for so many decades, just another evil face that disappeared into the crowd before you could catch him. He would be that villain now; he’d become the malicious specter they’d always seen if that’s how they really wanted him. The thought was slightly terrifying, but also gave him a sick sense of calm: that he would avenge his former self… The angry, helpless victim of their evils. Before, returning here would be a challenge… Now, there is nothing but gleeful anticipation of the wreckage he’ll soon cause. 

He stops just outside of Hoboken, where the closest base he’s followed Rumlow to is disguised as an old milk bottling and processing plant. From a safe location, he uses the secure line Tony had given all the team members and has JARVIS patch him into the Tower’s communication systems. The dial tone runs for a few short moments before Steve’s voice eagerly comes through on the other end. Bucky can practically envision him slamming into things as he dashes to the phone. He feels a quick pang of guilt once he hears the undertones of urgent concern beneath Steve’s initial angry inquiry. 

 

“Bucky!” He breathes into the phone, sounding incredibly relieved. “What the  _ hell _ ? Where are you? What are you doing?” 

 

Bucky sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I’m fine, Steve… I followed Crossbones to a base and I’m gonna take it down.” There is silence for a few moments, and Bucky is worried that the line’s gone dead. 

 

“You're going to do what?” Steve says in a low tone, each word sharp with weighted disapproval. Bucky’s resolve falters. 

 

“The base...a HYDRA base. I’m infiltrating it.” 

 

“Why?” Steve cries out, sounding frustrated beyond belief. “WE completed the mission! There was no need to pursue,  _ alone _ , and risk your safety!”

 

“Steve, there was every reason. We might be able to stop them now… Or at least come close. Besides, I had to do this. Damn my safety, I want to get even.” Bucky snaps, hand clenching into an angry fist. Why does Steve have to be so difficult? He did the exact same kinds of reckless and stupid things when it was the Commandos taking out bases across Europe. 

 

“ _ Fuck _ that, that’s a stupid excuse.  _ I  _ care about your safety! We could have worked out a plan...done this together. You didn’t have to go alone.” He says, and the last line sounds like a desperate whine. 

 

_ Didn’t they just talk about this? _ Why couldn’t Steve just let him live his life? Steve asked Bucky not to baby him… Why is there such a double standard? Sure Bucky’s a man haunted by ghosts, the entity of his former self taking a backseat to all his actions, and those he’d created always swarming, and he’s volatile sometimes when his emotions get the better of him. But does that really mean Steve can’t trust him to do his job? If there’s one thing he can do, capably, it will always be what they’d programmed him for. 

 

Bucky bites back a snarky retort. “I don’t need your team to babysit me, I can take them on my own.” 

 

Steve’s voice falls, and so does Bucky’s heart when he hears it. He missed something important about those words.  _ Shit _ . “I didn’t mean the team, Buck.” Steve replies dejectedly. “I meant you and me… The two of us. I thought… I thought that’s what this was, what we’d promised each other. You and me, always having each other’s backs in everything.” 

By that time, JARVIS has traced the man's location so that they can send in a Task Team if anything goes wrong. There’s nothing more to say, and Bucky bites his lip as the dial tone rings loudly in his ears. 

 

Bucky instantly is awash with regret, his fingers itching to seize the phone and frantically redial the number, hoping Steve will answer so he can mend things between them. Yet he knows it wouldn't do them any good, and the longer he stands out here, the more at risk of being discovered he is. If he’s going to make things right with Steve, he’ll need to be alive. Steve, once he calmed down, would understand. He wouldn’t want Bucky risking more than he already has in order to patch things up. Stealth is key to getting safely into the base, and the best thing he can do for Rogers right now is to succeed and return alive. They can make up later, they're good enough at that. Hell, if anyone has time to wait around, it would be the two of them. He moves quickly down the hill, creeping with light feet, his tread soundless as he makes his way up the service road, jumping the barbed wire fence quite easily. The chain link quakes under his weight with a metallic ringing noise, but that is all and as he lands with a soft thud in the gravel lining the area, his feet touch HYDRA property for the first time since the Helicarriers crash. He flexes his toes with anticipation, adrenaline levels rising and making his skin tingle before he darts forward, eyes scanning the exterior of the plant for a way in undetected. 

Suddenly he spots an open window, and it only takes moments for the super soldier to scale the twelve foot wall and climb through, squeezing his bulky frame through the small square cut into the concrete. He grunts without thinking as he forces his shoulders past the wooden sill, his hands gripping onto the planks, which groan in his grasp, the green paint flaking away in his hands. He dusts off his palms on the black material of his mission wear pants, before lifting his head to survey the area. He’s in the hallway, and to his left there seems to be an office converted into storage. He jogs over and starts prying open crates, beginning to pull out weaponry to refill the clips for his two guns, to grab a third knife and latch it to his thigh, and grab two more extra magazines. This time, HYDRA would not catch him unawares. 

After he's properly armed, Bucky sneak quietly down the long corridor,always on the alert, listening for the slightest indication of an agent coming to ambush him. It is completely silent in the base, which is incredibly eerie. Bucky got in here much too easily for his liking; he didn’t even have to take anyone out… No guards, no agents, no handlers. He’d even have expected the head of HYDRA to come and greet him with an armed team, but to be honestly he has no idea who’s running the organization now. Pierce is dead, Whitehall was rumored to be controlling it, but he too is now deceased… Some sort of incident between the deranged father of a gifted agent and Coulson. He’d heard  whispers that they’d chosen two new men to lead, but their status as of yet was unknown to him. For all Bucky knew, they were killed by SHIELD and someone random had assumed power, like maybe that bitter orphan boy always trailing around Garrett like a lost puppy. He thinks back to some missions, remembering that the Soldier had never trusted his loyalty… Which was to Garrett. Man, that guy had some attachment issues, almost worse than him with Steve now. Bucky chuckles softly to himself, almost hoping to alert someone of his presence just so he’d stop feeling so uneasy about his solitariness. 

Almost, but not quite. Which is why he is caught off guard when a woman suddenly slinks out from the shadows in the direction of the west side of the plant. He freezes at the sound of her heels coming to a stop behind him, pivoting slowly on his own to face her. 

She stands tall, her legs long and curved beneath her tight black pants and her leather boots. She wears a grey top that is loosely fitted to allow for more movement beneath a black jacket, which Bucky knows she will throw off if he makes the smallest move, ready to fight him. He picks out the shape of a knife against her thigh, a gun holstered at the small of her back, and the earpiece wedged in beneath her hair, which is tied back into two long braids that hang over her shoulders. Her dark lips smirk at him, and her brown eyes crinkle as she watches his mind process her image. Bucky’s fists clench in agitation, or anticipation of driving them into her tanned jawline. She is, as he recently read in his file, Agent Avery Turnabout, his most recent handler. 

 

“It’s been awhile, Soldier.” She calls out tauntingly, her eyes seeming to gleam with amusement. This is all just a game to her, and she’s ready to play. “Miss me?”

Bucky calculates for a quiet moment, tension crackling between them in the air before he suddenly rushes forward, lunging for her waist. She slides backwards cooly, her body bent into a crouch, her arms thrown behind her for balance. In her left hand she expertly twirls a capped syringe he knows is filled with sedative. She won’t use it...yet. This is too much fun for her. Bucky doesn’t reply and instead tries to hit her down again. She blocks and counters with her other hand but Barnes feints left and twists out of her grasp, his fist slamming into her mouth as he rolls over to the right and ending up on his haunches behind her. He kicks out his right leg and catches her in the ankle, wiping the dark smear of lipstick off his hand and onto on his leg. She falls backwards with an exaltation of surprise, landing on her side and quickly tries to get back up, but Bucky swoops in, pinning her down by the wrists. She struggles beneath him, as he uses all of his body weight to keep her from standing or flipping him over and gaining the advantage over him. THe arm whirs and sputters, much like Turnabout in her surprise.

 

He chuckles darkly under his breath, eyes meeting hers coldly. “I guess you trained me just a little too well, didn’t you?” He spits at her, crushing her wrists in his hands until she cries out and drops the syringe. 

 

The vial cracks once it hits the floor, liquid bleeding out into her hair. Bucky knows that she can't control him now. He grunts as she tries to whip her thick braids at him, ducking and pushing her back against the wall, still sitting on her legs. She snarls at him, looking at him with murder in her eyes. 

 

“What’s wrong?” He asks mockingly, taking up an air of ignorance. “Don’t you like a little competition?” He tuts at her as though disappointed when she goes limp beneath him, giving up all resistance and tossing her head back. She actually starts to shake. “I didn’t know you just stop playing when it looked like you were going to lose.”

 

Suddenly, Avery lifts her head and Bucky sees that she’s been laughing hysterically, her shoulders shaking with unbridled glee. Bucky frowns at her, knowing that she's trapped beneath him and has no way of getting him to release control over her. He’d covered all his bases, and she should at least be begging for mercy if she isn’t going to resist. He wouldn’t give it to her, he can remember all the things she’d done to him, forced him to do… She turns her face towards him, barking out a harsh chortle. Her lips part as she crushes her ear against her shoulder, activating the earpiece and reporting back to whomever is on the other end. 

 

She says slowly, “We’ve got him right where we want him, sir. The Asset has been reclaimed.” and when she grins at him, her wide mouth parts to reveal large, white teeth stained pink with darkening blood gushing from her gums and pooling against her lower lip.

 

“Hello, Soldier.” She purrs, her voice low and much too calm for someone about to die. Bucky scowls at her. “I think we can both admit what would be the best course of action.”

 

“Shut up!” Bucky hisses at her, grip tightening again. Oh, fuck,  _ no _ . He’d forgotten about this… Their last resort. A failsafe he’d always been programmed to selectively ignore, wiped to forget whenever they needed to utilise it against him. It was there, stirring at the back of his memories, but as of yet unreclaimed. It always worked to catch him off guard. 

 

“Take a deep breath.” She continues, and Bucky eyes widen in shock as his whole body is shot through with a paralyzing fear. The Faustus Method still haunts his nightmares. 

 

“I said  _ ‘Shut up! _ ’” He yells at her, flinging her against the other wall by her wrists. He is certain he hears one of them snap like a twig beneath his metal arm, which is groaning loudly in contrast to her almost silent thud against the wall echoing down the corridor. One hand goes to her throat, squeezing harshly to try and make her stop talking. He is panicking; his heart is racing against his heaving chest as he screams at her to stop. Anything to get her to stop. She chokes beneath his hand, face reddening as her eyes frantically dart around, hoping for someone to come to her aid. 

 

“Clear… Your… Mind.” She wheezes, and against his will, Bucky can feel the tension ebbing from his brain. The terror clawing at his throat begins to recede as he goes slack, his arm dropping into his lap. He stares at her with large and dulled eyes, his mind screaming at him to fight, but unable to do anything but watch her as her delicate hands, not even a fingernail chipped from their ordeal, move to her neck to rub at the bruises forming along the surface of her skin. She smiles at him brightly, pleased, and he can’t help but smile back.  _ What the hell is wrong with him? How could he have let her win… _ He can hear footsteps echoing down the halls as more agents swoop in. He counts at least thirteen pairs of feet, the number ringing around his emptying head. 

 

“But, you  _ know  _ this is for the best. Aren’t you ready to comply?” She coos at him, one hand moving to smooth down his cheek in a soothing manner. His muscles relax, and his jaw sets as he feels himself nod. He should have been smarter about this… Steve was right-- _ Steve! Aw, hell, Stevie is gonna kill him for this. Absolute murder. _ His last thought as Bucky Barnes is of Steve, his golden face crinkling in despair when he gets the news, before he distantly heard a gruff voice that hasn’t been his own for a long time answer, 

 

“I’m happy to comply.” 

 

“Prove it.” Comes the response from the leading lady, her fingers flying quickly through her dark locks as she rebraids her hair, which has escaped its coils during their fight, and Bucky nods again, moving to follow her down the stairs at the right, never a step behind her.

 

 

* * *

 

Not surprisingly, the higher ups at HYDRA are delighted to hear that the Asset has been reclaimed, and they don’t even have to spend any money reconditioning him. All it takes is one night in the cryochamber they had brought in and a few wipes for him to forget he’d ever left the crumbling ring of villains at all. He screams through every freezing wipe, but he’s not sure why. This is where he’s supposed to be, where he’s always been, and wipes are just a part of the process. He needs them, they’ve told him that. They’re helping him… And he should obey. The woman with long hair is always hovering over his shoulder, knife in hand. The glint of the shiny metal in the weak morning light calms him. Killing is a task he is accustomed to, it isn’t foreign like the tugging feeling at the back of his mind, as though there is something he is forgetting. The thought is ridiculous, because the Soldier never forgets his training or his missions, until they are wiped from his mind. There can’t be anything else to remember. He follows orders, taking down safehouse for SHIELD that night, and taking the lives of everyone huddled into the gloomy corners, their silenced cries still ringing in his mouth as he inhales their final breaths deeply, like the smoke from a fine cigar. 

After a while, the woman with the braids briefs him on a new assignment. She tells him it is very important for the fate of the organization and for the nation that he do this. The Soldier nods quickly, letting her know he is listening. 

 

“It’s a Special Ops mission,” She explains, pulling up a location on a map projected onto the screen before him. “We need you to go to this area and check the building for any signs of life, or important technology. Have the men with you look for important documents or information amongst the belongings. Then, when you're certain there is nothing nor anyone of value to us, burn the place to the ground. I don’t want even a trace of it lingering… That might bring about… Temptation.” She says, choosing her words carefully, and Bucky frowns. Her speech is odd to him, but he assumes she means it’s filled with intel that could endanger the sanctity of the free world. He will do his duty in protecting it by taking out this evil place, and anyone in it. His eyes flick to the screen, and settling on a red dot pinpointing an apartment building in Washington D.C. 

 

“Who lives there?” He inquiries, committing the coordinates to memory.

 

She shrugs one shoulder nonchalantly, but even so she cannot hide the apprehension in her eyes as she answers him. “Just some criminal… He goes by the name of Steve Rogers. But enough, it is not your place to question your assignments. Comply.”

 

The Asset shakes his head clear, knowing he has overstepped his bounds. “Compliance will be rewarded, I shall comply.”

 

 

* * *

 

It takes a few days before Steve hears word from the team Tony had JARVIS dispatched to the location, hoping to find Barnes. Coulson storms into the Tower, indignant and angry and demanding to know what the  _ hell  _ kind of  _ game  _ Stark thinks he’s playing at, taking their team of government specialized agents on a secret night mission to reclaim a deadly toxic gas that could affect thousands laying in a practically demolished building in the middle of New York city and then letting Barnes run right back into the hands of the organization they’re trying to defeat. The man presses his fingers to the scrunched up space between his eyes, and Steve quickly hurries to get him some aspirin while Tony protests that they shouldn’t have to inform Coulson every time they do something on their own, especially now that some other “Real SHIELD” is trying to take his power away. Behind him, Agent May laughs quietly, leaning back against their wall in the commons room with Natasha, who has returned from her mission and looks even more pissed off than Coulson. Steve doesn’t know who she’s more upset with: him, Stark, Bucky or HYDRA. She keeps mumbling that they're all idiots, from what he can surmise from her furious Russian, under her breath. He returns, two white pills and a glass of water in his hands, passing them to the Director, complaining that even Fury wants to know what they thought they were doing, and his own head starts to throb as Tony yells that he never wanted to be a part of their Avengers Initiative anyways, and he never signed anything saying he’d promise to notify them every time someone on the team,  _ “Took a goddam piss, for God’s sake!”  _

JARVIS chimes in quickly, drawing up a holographic copy of some sort of contract, zooming in on the glowing signature that scrawls  **_Tony Stark_ ** along the page, and alerting his creator to the fact he did sign a contract, which essentially said he did need to notify SHIELD of any sudden missions or actions that would put a team member, a civilian or the organization in jeopardy. Tony growls in frustration, while Banner sits at the table, head in his hands. Steve knows he feels guilty for what happened; for not relaying Bucky’s disappearance to SHIELD sooner. It isn’t really his fault though, it isn’t anyone’s except maybe his own. He never should have lost his temper, he should have stayed on the phone and gotten it through Bucky’s thick skull that he shouldn’t go anything alone. Not now, they were together now and they were supposed to protect each other if something went wrong. Steve’s failed Bucky. Barton stalks back and forth, on the phone with some of his agents on the inside, trying to see if they’ve heard anything about the resurgence of the Winter Soldier Project. Everyone else goes quiet, listening to him asking questions and responding. Suddenly his head shoots up, Stark and Coulson quitting their quarrel for the time being, and he’s speaking rapidly into the phone, grabbing a pen and writing things down on a napkin, finally hanging up and setting the phone down.  He looks to Steve, his face wary. 

 

“Well, they’ve found him.” He states simply, and Steve refuses to let his heart rise into his throat because Clint looks so distraught. “He’s in D.C., Steve, and they think HYDRA doesn’t know your current location. He was seen by my allies leaving the wreckage of your old apartment as it was on fire.”

 

“On fire?” Steve questions, getting up from his chair and moving to grab the scrap of paper the words are written on, his eyes scanning it worriedly. 

 

Clint nods. “He burned it to the ground… There’s nothing left, and no one was inside. They think he was looking for something of yours, maybe even for you. But your place was empty, since you’d moved here.”

 

“You’re welcome for saving your life, by the way.” Tony deadpans from the chair he’s thrown himself into. Everyone scowls at him, and he holds his hands up innocently. “What, too soon?” Steve’s fists clench and his jaw sets. Stark looks ready to dive for cover behind Banner beside him, until Steve sighs sadly and turns back to Clint. 

 

“How soon can I be there?” He demands, his voice hard and not letting in room for contradiction. His eyes dare Coulson to forbid him from risking it. 

 

“That’s the next part. He’s gone. Vanished. They think he’s travelling down the area, since a SHIELD safe house for refugees in Maryland was taken the day after he was lost, and…” He cuts off, looking down at the table and twisting his hands. Natasha steps forward, sensing his regret, and placing a hand on Steve’s shoulder. It’s not for comfort; she does it to ground him in case he falters, or goes into a rage. “There were 10 men, 10 women and 5 children. Only two were outside the facility when he went in. They’re the only survivors.”

 

Steve chokes back a startled gasp, and Natasha tightens her grip on his arm calmly, though her heart aches for James, and for Steve. “We have reason to believe that Barnes is going to be moving down South; into Virginia.” Clint finishes, sitting back down. 

 

“Then that’s where I’m going.” Steve says, looking to Coulson. “I’ve informed you, sir, now I’m leaving.” With that, he turns to go get suited up, and Natasha follows him down the hall. She isn’t going to argue with him, but she sure is not going to let Rogers go it alone. She’s already in her combat gear, ready for action. She waits as Steve strips down behind his bedroom door and comes back out dressed to kick some HYDRA ass. He slides his shield onto his arm, his face hardened and cold with grief. “Let’s go.” 

***

 

Their flight to Virginia doesn’t take long, and Steve sits in silence the entire time, drawing up battle plans and trying to figure out a way to get Bucky to come back with them if they cannot get him to remember anything. His leg bounces up and down with nervous energy, and Natasha eventually places her hand on his knee, holding him still. Steve sheepishly apologizes, and the woman merely raises one perfectly arched red eyebrow and shrugs. Their plan is to lay low once they arrive, looking for signs of HYDRA activity or Bucky. Once they locate him, they must find a way inside and get to Barnes. Steve will get him alone and try talking to him. If that doesn’t work, Natasha will incapacitate him and they’ll bring him back to the Tower on sedatives strong enough to keep him down. Steve hates the idea of keeping Bucky locked up inside the Tower stronghold, he feels that his return should be willing like last time, but he knows they can’t afford that luxury. Bucky needs to be saved before HYDRA can inflict more damage, to him and to the world they lay at his feet. He’ll stay in confinement until Steve can get through to him. Sam would help, and Agent May has offered the services of her ex-husband, a trusted psychologist, as well. Steve sighs a heavy breath. They’ll get through this. They always make it through; clean up each other’s messes. It’s what they do. 

When they land, they use cloaking devices Stark has created which give them the appearance of civilian clothing, while they remain in gear and ready to fight beneath the suits. They wander the streets of downtown Richmond for a few hours before Steve notices a few men in dark suits stalking around the office of a bigshot CEO of tourism sites. Motioning to Natasha, they sneak inside undetected and listen at the door. HYDRA is paying off the official to remain silent on the most recent plan of theirs: to blow up the State’s major tourist attraction, because it is actually a front for the CIA. The CEO will cover it up for the right price, and then gain access to HYDRA’s resources, mainly the use of a very special Asset: the Winter Soldier.

 

“But what do I want with some agent?” He is asking them, and they respond. 

 

“No, he’s no agent. It’s a weapon. A wonderful, skilled weapon that works efficiently and without remorse.” Steve’s face flares in rage at that, because all Bucky does is regret what HYDRA made him do… What they’ve just made him do. 

 

Their other party makes an agreeable noise, pondering it over before consenting to their offer. He accepts the funds wired to a Swedish bank account and promises that no one will ever know the explosion was anything but an accident. Then he asks if he may see the Soldier, and is informed that he may, as the man is currently locked in cryo. Steve and Natasha tail them as they move down the corridors and dash down stairs, Steve’s blood pounding in his ears, when the agents take an elevator down below to the bowels of the building. They make swift work of taking out each agent, most of them negotiators unskilled in combat, and the surprised and outraged CEO. Steve freezes once the last man has fallen unconscious to the floor. He has alerted SHIELD of their location so that operatives can come in and disable the temporary headquarters for the organization. But they won’t arrive for another half hour or so… For now, it is just them, and Bucky.  

Steve crosses over to the cryochamber, and his knees feel weak. He drops down on them before the looming steel coffin, the blue-green window frosted over. He wipes his careful hand over the condensation, Bucky’s sleeping face peering back at him. His face has more stubble, he needs a shave, and there is a large gash beneath one eye. His lip has scabs along the bottom curve, as though he bit it too hard. Natasha knows how to work the machine, so Steve turns to her. She slowly powers it down, and opens the heavy door, the hinges creaking loudly as though in protest. Steve stands up and backs towards the only exit, hoping to block it so that his lover cannot escape in his confusion. Natasha watches as Bucky blinks slowly, prying open his eyes. It can take a while to come down from cryo-treatment, she knows. His pupils widen as his eyes adjust to the dim light in the basement, and his nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath, eyes moving around quickly to take in the underground room. Natasha can tells he’s waiting for someone to come and help him, so she offers him her arm quickly, letting him step down to the floor. It is all going well until he turns to her and realizes her hair is red, and not in braids. She is not his handler, and he is instantly alert, flipping her over by the arm and backing up, fists raised. Natasha lets out a grunt, and then flips backwards, landing on her feet, poised to sparr. 

 

“Bucky!” Steve cries out automatically, and the man’s head snaps to attention, his gaze diverting from Romanoff to Rogers. He growls low in his throat, before starting for him. His groaning fist, taught with energy, connects with the shield, and the clang of metal on metal reverberates throughout the concrete cellar like a gunshot. He dodges more of Bucky’s blows before knocking him away from the stairs with a few of his own. Bucky doesn’t even flinch. Steve knows what he has to do, and he mentally chants an apology as he drives his shield, hard, into the side of Bucky’s skull. He doesn’t hit him hard enough to knock him unconscious, but still the crack of vibranium against his bone makes his stomach swoop sickly.  

Bucky soars backwards, hitting the ground hard and skidding to a stop in front of Natasha. Standing up, he sways slightly, his eyes seeming to clear. One hand moves, in what appears to be a subconscious manner, to clench into a right fist around something in his pocket. Clearly it is something he wants to protect, but Steve doesn’t have time to be concerned with whatever the mystery object is right now; he needs to get Bucky to remember. It doesn’t look like they'll be able to sedate him, and that is still a dark and ominous road of betrayal Steve does not want to go down. For one thing, he feels like coming out of this, Bucky will have dealt with enough trauma to last a lifetime all over again, and the last thing he needs is to feel taken against his will and a loss of his control to the one man he thought he could find safety in and trust. Steve is no fool; he values the things Bucky shares with him, things he doesn't give to anyone else. For another thing, Steve wants Bucky to remember, he  _ needs  _ it. He’s lost Bucky four times now, and he’s terrified that this time he will not get him back. That is unacceptable. Bucky has always meant the most to him, and maybe it is a bit possessive and vain to need someone else to be alright for his sake, but at its core, love is incredibly selfish in nature… And Steve Rogers is a man in love.  

Steve looks down at his feet, and then begrudgingly at the man before him. It won’t be long before he regains full awareness and tries to kill him again. He will have to do this now, while Bucky still has a chance of remembering. He refuses to lose him, ever. He steps forward, shifting his weight as he catches Bucky’s arms and pulls him close. The delirious soldier falls against him, resting his forehead against the Captain’s shoulder almost gently. He seems so lost, and helpless… Like a child. His eyes are wide and round, and very clear blue as he peers up into Steve’s face, squinting. 

 

“Don’t I… Know you, Mister?” He slurs out, knees buckling under him again. Steve pulls him back up, frowning guiltily as he wonders just how hard he hit Bucky. Natasha eyes them expectantly, waiting for the signal for her to sedate him with her arms crossed over her chest, one hip cocked to the side. She rests her weight on one leg casually, but is in no way unready to fight. Steve nods quickly, one thumb brushing over a bruise on Bucky’s left cheek. He does not know how it got there, but in that moment, its presence is beautiful. The little purple mark is a sign that Bucky is alive, is back, is in his reach. He will never have another bruise because of HYDRA again. Steve will take all of them down single handedly before allowing that to happen.

 

He carefully lifts Bucky’s face to his own, his hands gentle. He looks back into those heavy eyes, biting on his lip uncertainly for a moment. He is losing him to the reconditioning, he knows it, and any minute now The Winter Soldier will reappear, hungry for blood. All of his emotions and apprehensions well up in him at once. He is afraid, angry, antsy for a fight, saddened, and so damn head over heels for this man. He would do anything for him, and this is why he must try now to free him from the prison his mind has been sealed in, breaking open the chrome bars with his bare fists and dragging the sleepy, quiet form from behind the crooked metal rungs. Rushing forward, he murmurs what might be, “Come back to me,” and crushes his mouth to Bucky’s.

The embrace is clenching, the kiss bruisingly rough and desperate. There is no delicacy, but regardless it is full of hope-filled passion. Bucky’s lips are pliable beneath his, and cold. He hasn’t warmed up from that freezer from hell yet. Steve wants to rip in in half. Slowly, the Asset begins to grab him by the hips and move his mouth against the Captain’s. Steve is so startled that he gasps into Bucky’s mouth. The man kisses him long and hard, biting at his lower lip so hard that pain blooms across Rogers’ vision in white hot sparks, before harshly shoving him away. Natasha stares, eyes hardened and narrowed.

 

“What the HELL was that, Steve? That wasn’t part of the plan!” She shouts, walking forward, braced to take on Barnes if he suddenly fights back… Or tries to wrestle Steve’s clothes off. They do not have time for either of those pursuits, more HYDRA men will be returning soon to see why all the COMMs are down. 

 

Steve is still watching Bucky, eyes blown wide and his hair disheveled. He is breathing heavily through his mouth, the lips a cherry red, swollen. His chest rises and falls as a heaving rate unnatural even for a superhuman. His gaze is full of questions as he reaches out for Barnes, who smacks his hand away. 

 

“Get out...Go, while you still can. They’re coming, I can feel them in my blood. In my veins. Get out of here while I still let you; you cannot help me.” He barks out, voice rough and cold. Bucky stares at the ground, unclenching his fists over and over, shaking from the effort it is taking to restrain himself. Steve falters, heat crackling all down his nerves and shooting back up to his brain in boiling waves. He is so warm that the electric shock of it all feels cold.

 

Steve takes a measured breath, trying to calm himself down. The entire room has fallen silent, Natasha soundless as she crosses to Steve’s side, the sedative still held in her hand, a waiting option. She watches their exchange with sad eyes, and somewhere in her mind she can hear her former fighting instructor telling her she had beautiful blue eyes, _ like a man he once knew _ , as he had corrected her stance when firing a bullet into a live target. He is huge, and seems young, but this black widow can see the age in his eyes. He is the ever present vexing god, waiting on his crumbling ionic column to die. She can smell the stink of the frosty coffin on him, it comes out in his sweat. She is only a little girl, but she can smell it on herself as well. Later on that night, they wipe him. Of course they do, when you say a stupid thing like that and let them know you still remember. He is not careful, or wise like she is. His screams carrying into her dreams. She dreams she is sitting in a small house in the country. Her old grandmother is there, making a pot of soup as she tells the children a story. They are Natalia’s children, born of her womb. She smiles softly at them before resuming her quilting, splaying the fabric over her protruding belly, feeling movement within herself. She falters, as the quilt across her lap is made up of black and grey shapes forming a firing pistol. The monotone blanket is growing crimson as blood pours down her calves, and she is yanking at the cuffs latching her to the bed. The children shriek from their seat at the hearth, crying out for her to find the source of the screams and snap his neck like a chicken. In the morning, she regrets not asking him the name of the blue-eyed man. Shaking herself from the memory, she realizes Steve has spoken. 

 

“Don’t say that to me;  _ never  _ say that to me. You can say anything you want but that. That is the one thing you’re never allowed to do, under any circumstances. Don’t you ever say I can’t help you.” He asserts commandingly, catching Bucky’s gaze in his own, daring him to try and defy him. Bucky’s fist clenches in his pocket again, and he hangs his head, turning towards the door. 

 

“Where are you taking me? They won’t like it.” He states frankly, turning around to peer at the Captain. Steve smiles ruefully at him, one hand hovering near the small of his back to urge him up the stairs and into the sunlight. 

 

“I’m sure they won’t. We’re taking you home, somewhere safe, I promise.” Steve tells him, but Bucky begins to grow agitated. 

 

“No! They won’t like it if I’m gone, I-They’ll punish me. Compliance will be rewarded. I have to comply, I must obey. The Winter Soldier respects his orders. The Winter Soldier does not disobey. The Winter Soldier does not--”

 

Bucky is cut off as Natasha plunges the needle into his arm, wind whipping her dusky red curls around her face, taking one wrist and dragging him along the street. They are in broad daylight, and if anyone notices them, which someone is bound to as they drag a metal armed giant down the street, there is a chance HYDRA will follow them. They need to go,  _ now _ . Steve looks pained as Bucky begins to mumbled nonsense as they lead him. He hated this stuff the first time, but it seems to be the only thing strong enough to knock Buck out. He didn’t want to have to use it, but they were running out of time. Bucky will forgive him, he will understand that it was most important to safely get him away, no matter the cost. At least, Steve hopes so. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is so short... We wrote most of this fic 2 years ago, and I'd generally try to go back in and add more detail before posting each individual chapter, but now I don't really have it in me. Plus, I'm just really inept at writing combat scenes and missions, I sort of just make it all up as I go. (We all know I don't watch marvel movies for the fight scenes or the superhero plots, at least not entirely. I care more about my sons' personal lives, honestly.) Also, again, sorry if there's any mistakes. I hope it was clear that Nat had a little mini flashback about her time with Bucky. Thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Love, it will get you nowhere  
> You're on your own  
> Lost in the wild  
> So come to me now  
> I could use someone like you  
> Someone who'll kill on my command  
> And asks no questions
> 
> I'm gonna make you  
> I'm gonna break you  
> I'm gonna make you  
> A fucking psycho."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE! an update. god i really want to finish this fic just for the sake of accomplishing something I started. 
> 
> so this chapter is a special one!!! it's specifically bucky-centric pov. the intro is a separate piece that i wrote that ended up being about bucky. if it seems disjointed, that's why; but i feel it adds to bucky's own spiraling confusion. i hope you enjoy!!

_He doesn't know where to go, his mind is all numbers. The numbness of the numbers only solidifies into something pulpy and congealed within his skull. The shrieking, static pain is zig zagging across his eyelids that rarely ever blink. He doesn't need to blink anymore, the blinking is done for him. Programmed into the sinews that stretch and whine. The end of his task is solemn, frosted. The film over his eyes is not tears, but merely icy residue. The blunt, bleeding knife is raw in his gloved hands, the scars along his form feel raw, he is split open again and the minute, plinking sound of wet, crimson ore on the pavement of the parking garage in a country whose name he'll never know makes a silence, soft, curling, within his heart. He is the type of creature who is refrigerated, subjected to the icy breath of hellhounds time and again in order to grow, to preserve the coding that rattles in his skull like a spare key slipped beneath a brick of red, something harder than bone but lighter than blood. They strike lightning into his tattered heart, ripping at each vesseled seam, and it melts the icicles he has built up there with something more than numbers, a jumble of stars, snow and selflessness, a word like, "Saint," a word like "Sacrifice," a word that starts with a sound like a mother cooing her child back to sleep after a nightmare. It is something he does not understand. They take fistfuls of his numbers in their gloved, wringing hands and sort them into piles. He doesn't know why they do this, for everything, in the end, gets burned by the frozen flame they keep concealed within their coat pockets. Their hands are mechanic and stink of plastic rather than flesh. They too, are inhuman, manufactured, unreal. A jolt, a volt, a stinging in his chest. His ears ring, he's screaming. His decaying form is frigid as he trembles and then lies still. A sticky, rubber hand passes over his eyes, which have finally been cauterized shut to stop the leaking of his bleeding heart mentality. He doesn't know it yet, but they are monsters he hides beneath his bed._   
  
*  * * 

  
For a moment, a protest whimpers past his hard line of lip and teeth. He knows this place, He _knows_ this place, what is he doing here? He remembers standing across them on that roof, peering into the glowing windows, he remembers a bullet, and shouting, he remembers catching something heavy and iron-scented in his metal grip but instead of being frozen like so much of the world seen through his gelid gaze, it is warm with the ghostly touch of another upon the crimson rim. Should he have clenched his fist around it, whirring gears resounding across the bricks? He _had_ clenched his fist around it... he... he should have-he should have cradled it...to his chest? He should have coddled it like it was _special_ , WHY had he tried to crush it beneath this automaton appendage, why hadn't he- why hadn't he held it to his _heart_ (But why a _heart_? A heart is merely  a hollow muscular organ that pumps the blood through the circulatory system by rhythmic contraction and dilation, and pressing cold metal.... _vibranium_ , he knows, but he does not know _why_ he knows this- To the space in his chest where he knows beneath, in the cavity of muscles and pumping BLOOD, boxed in by a cage of white curved bones… Well, it would serve no purpose to hold it close to the beating organ. Yet he wishes he had, wishes he had pressed his burning cheek to the star in the center, that pulsed with a life force much stronger than the fear they'd forced down his throat. Something like honor, something like balance, something like values and resolve, stubbornness and laughter and home. He thinks this building was once somebody's home. Why have they brought him here, he pleads with his gaze. The man on the-- They silence him with a sharp bark of The tongue and a knife point dug into his skin. It is proprietary; they have blotted out the fear of death and replaced it with the cold, but the pain is a warning of what tortures they could inflict now that they gained mastery over his cursed, immortal soul.   
  
_This is your mission_. They coo at him. _To look inside this wretched place for any form of life, any asset to hydra, and then torch it to the ground._ _  
_  
He understands, after all, he is first and foremost, Hydra's most valuable asset. No survivors, no ally to Hydra slumbers here. They do not leave him to his own devices, as he once remembers. The handler, thick ropes of dark hair trailing down her back, lurks across the street at a watchful distance, smirk stretching her fawny mouth, arms crossed over her chest in such a way that does nothing to conceal the Ruger‒No, _Glock,_ he discerns‒ beneath her dark blue sweatshirt. The flimsy terry cloth combined with her hairstyle, and youthful cheeks devoid of wrinkles, almost make her seem a deviant child who sees toys in matchboxes or the contents of the knife drawer she can just reach when she stands on tiptoe. And who's to say it is not so? The Soldier recalls more chambers than just his own, doors cracked open to allow a wisp of freezing draught to curl, noose-like, around his throat, which against his will grows spotted with goose flesh. Recalls lines of small children, girls, with braids trailing down their backs, recalls fixing their bruised fingers around triggers, recalls barking orders, recalls watching each hole indented into the human shaped target, remembers a prodigee of sorts... though her plaits were fire, not this ebony night. Yet, perhaps, this woman, too, is frozen within the crystalline chamber of warped glass and metal, palms a stinging red where they accidentally brush the surface in that split second prior to paralysis. Not that she attempted an escape. She would not do that. She knows better. They have made sure of that.   
She monitors, he must assume, his progress in the mission. This is absurd. The Winter Soldier has always a been reliable resource. He is fully committed to Hydra's betterment of the world, he was to _orchestrate_ such feats of goodwill and glory. So said the fine Alexander Pierce. Yet, Pierce is no longer at his side when he emerges from his icicle chrysalis. The Asset is unsure of where he has gone. He cannot remember the last time he saw the man. He cannot remember where he was before he went into the cryo chamber. He cannot remember what his last mission was... only, that for some reason, he failed to complete it. This is, indubitably, absurd. Compliance is rewarded. The Asset __always fulfills his orders; this is why Pierce chose him, why all those before sought him, respected his ability as a weapon. The man before Pierce, the pale men that had him teach small girls with flaming hair, the men with barking voices and blood red armbands, one with a pinched face and spectacle lenses curved as a glassy eyed full moon. Distant memories, faded now, of locks, rooms, of night skies and and faces the shade of blood.   
He steps inside the building, letting the side door slam shut on his metal hand as a tenant exits to forgo the need for a key. Slipping within the bowels of the flimsy building, which sways with the wind and groans, he marches upstairs to the floor they have assigned him, eyes flicking quickly over each metal plaque to find the right apartment.   
The lock is easily busted, doorknob crushed beneath his fist as though a thing of tin foil. Stepping inside, an air of mustiness tingles in his heaving nostrils. The apartment, devoid of all furniture besides those wood fixtures built in to the framework, is unused, perhaps for quite some time. It seems odd to him that they should go without letting out the unit for so long. And no one, a quick scan assures him, lurks within the plain white and brick walled rooms darkening with slanted shadows, shimmer with the setting sun. He is in the capital of this place, that much he knows. And this place is familiar… But why? Does it have to do with his last mission? The one he… failed? He groans as a sudden flash of memory splits across his vision. The sound of a shower running within the bathroom off to the side, his own haggard face staring back at him from the overhanging mirror… with a displeased frown? Why should his appearance not being to his liking matter? Furthermore… The Winter Soldier does not have such vain capabilities programmed, and yet it is a memory of his own feelings. And since when does the Asset harbor those either? 

More memories resurface, niggling their way to the top of his mind like sand crabs emerging, writhing, from beneath the wash of the waves upon the grains: Of himself, crouched within the empty cupboard, one door halfway open, amongst clean lines; a closed door farther beyond that he recalls held a bed which he slept in… Which he… shared? Impossible. The Winter Soldier never shared quarters with any handler, first of all because he did not need sleep, and secondly because if there was only one bed it went to his higher up, and he (if not standing guard all the night long) sat upon the floor. Shaking his head clear, weapon held at the ready, he kicks open each door, peers, nostrils flaring, into every crevice, and finds the apartment itself devoid of all life and material items. No hiding places appear to him, which means no concealed files of any kind. The lack of complex computers negates a database as well. He thinks there were supposed to be men with him, helping him search the place. Evidently, HYDRA figured he did not need a full crew for this mission. Should he feel… Proud? He should not feel anything, and yet he does… a wave of… hope? Comes over him. Why should being alone mean anything, in this place he has fading memories of? 

Bucky shuts his eyes, heaving breaths for a moment, before he continues moving through the rooms. Fruitless are his efforts, and he prepares to leave, reaching for the handheld radio holstered at his hip, beside a scanner. As the device is nestled in his palm, alerting him that there is no one else in the building (two of the other units are empty for repairs/remodeling, the other occupied by the exiting resident who inadvertently let him in), he spots something jammed within a crevice of the refrigerator and the counter. A flash of wrinkled brown amongst the dusty space. On what he would have called a whim had he not been the Soldier (for the Asset does not,  _ cannot _ , have whims) he reaches out to pry it loose from the space. With a quick, and surprisingly  gentle, tug it comes free, the parchment rustling between his calloused fingers. He stares at it for a long minute. It is, as it appears, some sort of charcoal… image? A drawing, or sketch, he recalls, and for a moment he almost imagines there is a spirit residing in his head, murmuring lowly into his mind’s ear.  _ Ridiculous _ . Bucky returns his attention to the  _ sketch  _ rubbing a thumb along the smudged outline. The image is of a man, sitting on some sort of… crate? For milk, he notices, and the man, though bedecked in loose and rumpled work clothes of an odd style, cannot be described as anything but regal, yet full of mirth. There is a delicate grace and motion contrasting his rigid and haughty pose, the bemused grin uplifting the corners of his mouth belying the way he cannot conduct himself too seriously, his laughing eyes crinkling their stoic and handsome gaze towards something. While his head is turned off to the side, his eyeline tilts to meet those of the viewer, presumably the original artist. There is a date in cramped, neat writing in the corner, along with a soft signature. The numbers, which are irrelevant, reveal the piece’s age, and the signature is that of his target.  _ Steven Grant Rogers. _ The criminal. This thing, so deceivingly unimportant in appearance, ties back to his mission. He keeps in crumpled in his crushing grip as he stalks out from the flat, whipping out the scanner at his waist and booting it up. 

He does a quick sweep of the entire building once more, internally cringing at himself. What is the matter with him today? And why is he aware enough to recognize an issue? He must need to be wiped again, badly. His second inquiry informs him he is alone, before a tiny blip surfaces on the screen in the unit above him. He takes the stair three at a time, no concern for the noise his heavy footfalls echoing around the stairwell create. He smashes the door open with his metal fist, and rushes inside.These are the quarters of the tenant he witnessed on his way inside; the walls are littered with photos of him and a small girl with mousy brown hair grinning cheekily at the camera. She is not present, as he scans the obvious hiding places, and her location is none of his concern. When he recognizes the life sign in his peripheral vision, he sheaths his knife and sighs

Subsequently, his efforts result in him exiting the smoldering brownstone with a fat white cat in arm, which he promptly releases onto the sidewalk to dart off into the bushes before his Handler can spot it. He doesn’t understand his impulse to perform this small act of mercy, and feels increasingly ill at ease. The sinking pit in his stomach worsens when he greets him, wry smile as her sarcasm flies completely beyond her weapon’s head,  _ his  _ head, and escorts him to the waiting chopper. The drawing, flaccid from heat exposure, the stiff paper wilting in his hands, has holes burned within from flying sparks and embers. He tucks it within a fold of his suit, extinguishing any active burns, soot falling guiltily from his fingers like snow. 

 

***

 

To Bucky’s surprise, no one finds the drawing. He lives in the suit, but one would assume they could sense his betrayal, smell it on him. They wipe him, he continues his missions, he sees only his Handler, he receives bare minimum medical eval and more extensive mechanical repairs. The HYDRA bio-engineers seem astounded by his arm, though they try to hide this. It is not theirs, that much he can surmise by reading their cracking, thin lips and overhearing their idiotic mumbling, and this frightens them. The higher ups demanded it be removed immediately, and replaced, but the time it would take to fashion a new prosthetic would hinder their plans. The Asset is a very desirable piece of technology, one which has attracted the recent interest of some sort of government man in Virginia, where they will be taking him shortly. It is not worth it to delay the meeting for a new arm when his current piece functions properly enough to fulfill his orders, and besides, they add in almost frantic afterthoughts… They feel to perform a removal of something this extensively connected to him would have dangerous after effects. Heightened bodily attributes and all, the scientist men hypothesize another operation on a healing replacement already could permanently damage, or even decommission…  _ kill _ , he realizes with a start, him. 

And so he gets dismissed, and wiped again. Every time they do, it becomes harder and harder to readjust. He fumbles, he behaves strangely even as he ends each successful mission without fail. Eventually, HYDRA takes notice, and his Handler attempts to beat the reason out of him. He excuses her frustration; he knows her life rather than his is endangered. HYDRA would rather assign him a new Handler than ever take him off active duty now, for he understands with some part of his twisted mind that for a while he had gone off grid, and that was  _ bad _ . It is a matter of pride as much as power. She gets nothing from him, for he has no explanation for it either. He feels so blocked, so out of sorts, so confused. There is talk of recovering a book, left to them by the pale men, the one who speak the language which still sometimes trips off his tongue when emerging from the frost, a red book with a black star, an inverse to his arm he used to be inseparable from. It has been lost to time, they bemoan, last catalogued somewhere in Cleveland. Amongst its many fine papered pages of secrets and intel were a list of words… a mere eight or nine phrases, which they somehow agree would restore his former state of docility. He remembers only what they did to his head, only words above his open brain, only Faustus being lifted to be replaced with the pain of  _ Longing… Tarnished?  _ He can’t recall. The operatives helpless can only surmise one word, a potentially trigger for his return:  _ Sputnik _ . Bucky sees one mouth it from beyond the glass as he goes under, but he does not hear, so they do not see if it affects him. Then there is only cold, and ice, and he sleeps. 

And then, a woman releases him from his frigid slumber. His Handler, he thinks, here to call upon him once more to aid humanity’s evolution into an era without evil. He complies, coming down from the ice, then notices she is not the woman he knows attends him. Her pale skin reminds him of the men from before, her shapely mouth he recalls spitting out the tripping language, he sees her smaller, he sees a gun, he sees a bullet puncturing her skin and hitting another target. Her hair is the color of blood, and her skin still sweats the swallow pallor of the ice. Bucky reels back and away from her. Was she a Handler once? He knows her… But she is not his Handler  _ now _ , and therefore she is a threat. She must know the words, all of them. She will turn him back, she will steal him away, he will lose himself. Again. His body tenses, and he raises his fists for battle. 

A sound behind him captures his attention, and he snaps his head back to look for the briefest of moments: a man is there, who pulled him from cryo, the one from the memories that flash behind his shuttered lids when he is put under. His eyes are skylight, and they desperately search his face for… What? Recognition? The man on the bridge… The Soldier remembers. The man, a soldier, a  _ warrior,  _ hefts a heavy shield of spangled colors, and speaks. Bucky answers, he lunges, fights. This man from the bridge, he is Steve Rogers, war criminal, the mission he failed. 

Time passes in a blur, his head still clouded from the cryo-chamber. He stumbles, the shield is slammed into his head, and more memories, fragmented, slide into place.  _ Steve.  _ Steve and Natasha, his friends, teammates. This man boxes him in, presses close, their tactical suits crashing against one another. Their lips meet, bruising and deep, and his head clears, the fog receding back behind the steepled mountains. Natasha. His gingered prodigée and… Love. Steve.  _ He loves Steve.  _ Chill fear drips down his spine. They must go. He pleads with them. They have to get out before HYDRA discovers them. They can all die, or he alone can suffer the anguish. They were wrong; Bucky will always protect Steve. There is a prick in his side, he whips his head back, and then it all fades. But unlike the ice, it is not gradual, torturous, skin-splitting agony. Only quiet calm, the soft lap of waves upon unblemished sand, Steve’s arms around him. Bucky submits to the tranquil spinning of the world before him. He is home. 

 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Numbers   
> Makes a silence   
> Refrigerates  
> Melts   
> Sorts   
> Raw   
> Horror  
> Lies still


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You've haunted me all my life  
> You're always out of reach when I'm in pursuit  
> Long winded then suddenly mute  
> And there's a flaw in my heart's design  
> For I keep trying to make you mine
> 
> You've haunted me all my life  
> You've haunted me all my life."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another chapter while i'm here because it was already written lmao.

Once on the plane back to New York, Steve marvels at how relatively easy that was. With a grimace, he knows this isn’t the end. HYDRA always finds some way to get at him when things seem to be going well. The War, losing Bucky, the collapse of SHIELD, taking Bucky again. This isn’t the end, and he knows it. They will be furious that Captain America has reclaimed their “prize.” They’d seemed to get along fine without him, but it is the matter of their pride that will be a more vicious motivator for his recapture. Nobody defeats HYDRA like that, twice. Bucky eventually wakes up from his nap, having dozed off once they’d gone over New Jersey, drowsy and bleary eyed. He rubs at his eyelids with his metal fist, lifting his head up to peer over the armrest at Steve. 

 

“Hey,” He interjects, breaking up Steve’s lonely thoughts as he watches the clouds roll by in the indigo sky. Night is falling. Steve starts, rolling his head to look upon Bucky in astonishment. The sedative is still in effect. He wonders if Natasha gave him another dose when he wasn’t paying attention. “Hey, do you know what this is? Why do I have it in my pocket?” Bucky questions curiously, wrinkling his brow as he pulls out a crumpled piece of paper from his suit. This is what he has been gripping so protectively the entire time, Steve realizes, and remembers the crinkling crunch he had observed during the rescue. The paper is thick, and brittle. Covered with water stains, and browning with age, it rustles as Bucky turns it over in his hands. Blackened, charred edges have destroyed the corners, and there are holes burned in the body of the figure, but even so, Steve’s heart stills. He can envision where his signature used to be, scrawled in charcoal. Even without looking, he knows the holes used to hold Bucky’s hands, pressed against his thighs in a slightly uncomfortable stance after posing for a few hours. The tears and wrinkles all over the page are not familiar, and Steve’s nose crinkles as he takes the sheet from Barnes. The sketchpad paper smells acrid and smoky, and feels like poison in his lungs. He can’t believe he’d left this at the apartment, thinking it lost years ago. Bucky had posed for it just before the draft, a hint of a smile still hanging at the left corner of his mouth. His work clothes are rumpled and tattered, hanging loosely over his rigid frame, muscles emphasized by the shading across his arms and waist. He is surprised it survived the fire, but even more surprised that Bucky kept it, especially without knowing what it meant. 

 

“It-It’s you…” He replies weakly, his throat getting tight. He cannot meet Bucky’s eyes as the man retrieves the drawing from his trembling hands. He leans in, looking almost concerned to the point of tears, running a stumbling hand over Steve’s cheek, his hand warm and damp. “I drew that in 1942, just before we got tangled up in the War. Well, actually you wanted to enlist in '41 after the Pearl Harbor attack, but it was in the wnter... I got sick. You decided to stay.”

 

“I’ve been trying to find who drew this. It kept me safe when I was in the cold. I never let them see it…i’ was a secr’t.” He hummed, head lolling to one side as he rested it on Steve’s bicep. His hair smells, and his hands are clammy as they rest over Steve’s. His eyes are drifting shut again, and Rogers smooths back his dirty locks, pulling Bucky into his lap, where he falls asleep again, face mashed against Steve’s thigh.

  
  
  


* * *

 

When they return to the tower, the rest of the team waits for their arrival. Steve is surprised to find Coulson and someone named "May" on screen in the commons room, where he and Natasha are lead after taking Bucky to Stark’s lab, where he’ll receive another eval like the first time he came to the Tower once he wakes up. He had fought so hard to not restrain him, but Stark argued that they didn’t know what sort of mental state he’d be in upon revival. Steve, with gritted grimace and fuming, had to relent or they wouldn’t keep him at all. And Steve would be damned if he let them cart Bucky off to some sort of SHIELD holding base now. Coulson opens his mouth, greets them, and then seems to have trouble phrasing what he wants to say, so May, with a long suffering sigh, speaks for him. 

“Was your retrieval of the Winter Soldier successful, Captain Rogers?” She asks, looking up at him and Steve stills, lips tightening into a thin line. When he doesn’t speak, she turns to Natasha. “Agent Romanoff?”

Nat’s pleasantries are never subtle. Her smile looks more like a feral grin. “The  _ rescue mission _ of Sergeant James Barnes was completed. He is currently below in Stark’s lab for recovery, expected to revive at any time now.” 

Banner pushes himself off the wall, making polite excuses that he wants to go down and monitor Bucky. As he passes, he claps a hand on Steve’s large shoulder and gives him a small smile. Stark, who, oddly enough, actually appeared anxious, pulls the shades tucked against his breastbone free from his collar and slides them before his darting eyes. 

“Did they fuck with his arm, Cap? Did they mess up my tech?” Steve can hear the words beneath the superficial inquiry.  _ Is he okay? Are you?  _ No one else seems to register that Steve minutely nods a reply rather than shaking his head because Bucky’s arm seemed fine.

 After that they debrief, there’s paperwork to fill with JARVIS, mission reports, intel recovery, Clint brings them food, and Fury calls in through the secure server because he can’t get to the tower in person. Following all this, Stark, who has relocated himself to his lab to run arm diagnostics, and Banner chime in over the intercom to alert Steve that Bucky is awake. He’s sluggish and wiped out, but he’s safe and alive and that’s all Steve can really ask for. He spends a while alone with Natasha, just talking back and forth in Russian in quiet murmurs, and Steve tries not to let it hurt that Bucky doesn’t come to him. After all, Natasha is a huge support for Bucky, and he trusts Steve. Steve knows that. He’ll come to him when he’s ready.  Blessedly, they are allowed to go back upstairs to their floor, and Bucky immediately pulls them into bed, latching onto Steve. For a moment, he breaks down, sniffling against the curve of Steve’s neck, apologizing over and over. 

“Bucky,” Steve tries, voice breaking. “Stop. Bucky, stop it. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.” Eventually, he calms down, and Steve just holds him, running one hand through his hair, the other hugging him around the waist. They talk about it later, long conversations full of stoic silences and realizing that they’re both still more broken than they’d like to admit. But still, they manage. Life in the tower continues. Until Bucky’s memory lag ceases, and he starts to gain things back. Not just what he’d missed while under HYDRA’s control.  _ All of it.  _ Everything he’d remembered the first time, all his time as a free man since the Triskelion, finding Steve, coming to New York, the Midnight Oil, Rumlow, death at his fingertips. It is too much, and one night Bucky finally breaks. 

 

"I DON’T WANT TO REMEMBER THIS STEVE! NOT AGAIN. I  _ CAN’T _ ."  Bucky cries out desperately, hands balled into fists that press against the pounding in his temples. It feels like his brain is swelling, and it is an excruciating sensation of overload and panic ridden memories. The scream that has been building internally inside of his sinew is threatening to implode within him. It escapes through torn vocal chords, echoing throughout their home, and probably the whole tower. He is not sure how he survived doing this once, but doing it a second time is unbearable. The onslaught of blood and gore and death, death caused by him is insufferable. All that blood, staining his hands. He wants to tear his appendages off from his person, cut off the offending body part as the Messiah instructed. He is not even sure how anyone could forgive this sin, though. The scream falters, breaking off into a sob, choked back into the hollows of his throat, which is closing. He can’t breathe, gasping for air that feels like poison in his lungs, his shoulders shaking and eyes stinging with unshed tears that threaten to pop out of his eyelids, blinking profusely, and trickled down his hot skin, blood pounding in his ears and rushing to his face.

Steve presses forward, about to place a comforting hand on Bucky’s shoulder, hoping to snap him out of this. “Okay,” He says calmly, warm hand outstretched to try and lift his sorrows, drain the cup of smoldering wine in his heart, cleansing him of poisonous divinity. No one should have the power over life and death, certainly not this man with the moonlight shining in his eyes. No one deserves to play God’s dreaded messenger, angel of death, or to obey such gruesome commands, especially not Bucky.  “Nobody is gonna order you around anymore, Bucky. Bucky? You don’t have to do anything you don’t wanna do. I’m here now… We’ll make it through this." His voice catches, and he swallows around the tightness of his throat before adding brokenly, "Bucky, that wasn’t you.” Steve doesn't know what else to say to convince him. 

Bucky shrugs, knocking back his hand, pushing away. His face, which had been a painful contortion, gnarled with self-disgust and crumpled with self-loathing, has become an impassive wall; Bucky has closed himself off. His monstrosity is something he must bear alone, isolated from the human halo that is this lovely man before him. "I can't remember it all again, Steve. I can't." His voice is small and meek, like a child’s after a nightmare. He is fearful and reclusive, folding in on himself to try and hide from his own actions. 

 

Steve exhales air through his nose quickly, trying to rationally work out a way to bring both of them out of this alive and as mentally sound as possible. He can’t say the wrong thing or Bucky might leave him, possibly for good.  "Fine. Focus on me, pal. On us… On what we have. I’m here." 

 

Bucky is quiet, regarding Steve with somber and sensitive eyes, betraying a whirlwind of pain, fury and remorse entwined within the blue irises. It is a long while before Bucky speaks, mulling these words over in his head. This man is so good to him, and he cannot burden him again. His head is aching; these horrific memories can’t be allowed to resurface again. He can no longer regain or redeem himself. It is over. There is no more Winter Soldier. There is no more Bucky Barnes. "I don't want to remember it anymore." 

 

Steve knows he must dive into these troubled waters, and bring Bucky back to him, force the water from his lungs until he’s coughing and breathing sound air again. "Look at me. I’m here." He tries, taking Bucky’s face between his palms. Does it hurt less to remember the life they had, or cause more damage? Sometimes Steve is unsure of the answer himself. “We were together, remember that? We’ll always be together. Please, Buck.”

 

James looks at him with eyes that are full of destruction. He is defeated, dark. He needs to cut Steve free, can’t the man see that it’s James who is killing him? "That too. I don't wanna remember that again either." He needs to break out of his restraints, his mind cannot be tied down and force-fed any more awful recollections. He has to find someone to wipe him, to brush away all his memories and relocate, starting over again as someone else. Maybe he’ll get it right this time, and Steve won’t have to fret over him anymore. He’s not an idiot, he can see how much this is killing Steve. Even worse, he can figure out that Steve is trying to hide it and remain composed for his sake. No more. 

 

Steve is wounded but tries to hide his pain, hands curling into fists at his sides. "Okay… Alright. Nothing you don’t wanna do, right?" He says, voice garbled and rough as his throat visibly tightens. Something inside of the man beside him dies. He slips silently from the room and goes to bed, unable to handle this any longer. Bucky is going to leave him, that much is already decided. He will not be able to bear it. He could never live without him. Any reality without Bucky is not really living at all.  

 

Hours later, he is awoken from a fitful sleep by the sound of feet too clever to be anything but silent without purpose creaking the floorboards. Bucky is giving him an out, a chance to feign deep sleep they both know isn't possible, to send him away with harsh words in a fiery voice. Steve chooses silence, staring at Bucky with inquisitive eyes in the darkness. When bucky sits on the edge of the bed, mattress groaning out a protest Steve never would, twisting the sheet into tangled knots in his hands, Rogers is finally prompted to ask,

"What are you doing here?" It is absent of any malice, not an accusation but merely a curious question asked in the restless hours of this late, dark night. The guy just looks so awkward and ashamed. 

 

"I was wrong." he murmurs quietly, almost thoughtful in his tone of voice. His hands sit restless in his lap, fidgeting as though he constantly is refraining from reaching out and touching Steve. His body quivers minutely, and his eyes are squeezed shut tightly as he concentrates on answering with a coherent response before he starts babbling.  "I do need you, Steve. I--I want to remember you, if nothing else. Even if I am some terrible criminal who deserves nothing but humanity’s hatred, I want to be worthy of you. I want to deserve someone like you, and I never want to be deprived of one moment of our time together, past, present or future." 

 

Steve is silent, and when he finally responds, his broken voice wears a mask which tries to sound almost amused, the barest hint of relieved joy gracing his words. "Really?" He all but sighs and Bucky can hear the smile in his voice. Still, he can understand how much Bucky is laying out before him, his soul basically barred against the covers, waiting for Steve to lay his fingers upon it and rectify it all, so he pulls Bucky’s face close to his own and whispers into his ear, “I’m not going anywhere. You hear me? Never. I won’t ever leave you. You belong with me.” His voice is warm, his breath hot and ticklish against the shell Bucky of ear. The broken man licks his lips and nods, pieces of himself coming back together. 

 

“I know, I know that now… I really do.” 

 

"Bucky." Steve murmurs, reaching out in the dimness to tuck a lock of curling hair behind his ear. Bucky’s eyes flutter shut and he heaves out a heavy exhale. That’s all it takes before he’s curling himself against the blond man’s chest, Steve’s arms already held open. Bucky climbs beneath the covers and, despite the mildly uncomfortable humidity in the bedroom, presses himself snuggly against Steve's warm side, body heat radiating of him in waves. They never could stomach separation. Bucky thinks. How telling that all it takes for him to cave is not a list of slotted phrases in some sunset colored guidebook, emblazoned with a jet black star; just one word. One word that was the only one he ever needed to give into another’s will. It is his name, spoken by the man beside him. Softly, reverently, shouted across a Brooklyn avenue or alleyway, pleadingly, wheedlingly, any variation will do. Steve calls and he comes. That’s the order of the world. The only thing that matters to him right now is the way Steve says his name. 

“I love you.” Both speak at the same time, and Steve’s smile broadens. Bucky falls asleep against him with a disgruntled, catlike meow, and is still. Steve encircles him protectively with his thick arms, hands clutching at the thin grey cotton of the tee shirt he wears, fingers tracing patterns and letters on his shoulder blades. Bucky doesn’t shift in his sleep, nor does he cry out with night terrors. Nonetheless, Steve does not let go of him once during the night, his brow furrowed with lines of worry in the space between his eyes. Even in slumber, Bucky still quakes against him. 

All good things cannot last forever, and so it starts with a dream. Often, the darkest memories, one of scattered images that move too fast, sounds so loud in the ear he shivered, sure that his tormentor was directly beside him  happen while he is awake. Visions of hazy black spaces that brought only disorientation, leaving him whitewashed in a cold sweat crash through a quiet contemplation at random moments of time throughout the day. They come unannounced and unwanted. When he remembers good things, not facts or dates or names, but pleasantries, days to be celebrated and held on to, he is asleep.  When Bucky Barnes receives relinquished pieces of himself, of the man he was from the shadowy specter that still swirls around the mist in his memory, he dreams.

He drifts off that night enclosed in the protective ring of Steve’s embrace, and in his dream he is mobile and stands in his old schoolyard. The brick building, all four looming floors, the windows small and covered with the greasy fingerprints of pesky children. Over in the corner, by the bench where they used to play jacks and marbles, lay  coils of brown skipping ropes. The handles are the same brown wood, thick and heavy in a child’s hands, the rope long braids of coarse thread of a dun colored material. It is dark in the school yard, the sun not yet risen, small stars still winking in the indigo sky, high above the city skyline of tall buildings that stretched their iron structures and turned their faces up like  Otys and Ephialtes, attempting to scale the heavens. Bucky turns his face upwards, towards the sheen of stars clustering along the sky, soon to be lit by a bright ball of fire. Maybe he can climb the ladder where the tall, black silhouettes of the trees meet the stars and reach the heavens, too. He kneels to the dusty pavement, strewn with faded drawings of crude figures in chalk, pebbles and dust, and takes hold of one of the skipping ropes in his hands. He hefts the cord, feeling the weight of the handle at the end, but lets it go slack. This is no weapon, and Bucky is hardly going to kill anyone with a jump rope. Besides, he realizes as he turns his face up again, shading his eyes with the other hand, which he notices is flesh and blood, not metal and electricity, and pivots on his heel, there are only three other people in the school. He can hear distant sounds of cars passing by, and children’s laughter being carried to him on the breeze, shadowy figures of classmates passing him by so quickly they don’t usually register, but three solid figures stand off to his far left, just outside the door of the school. One is a tall woman, her dress is starched and the creased are clean cut, ironed properly. Her heeled boots click on the stairs as she tugs two small boys inside the school. Brown locks are swept back into a neat bun, tied tightly at the nape of her neck, and there is the slightest hint of rogue on her cheeks.  _ Mrs. Oswald, _ Bucky realizes with a start,  _ my teacher.  _ She drags the two little boys, one looking worse for the wear, to the office, and kneels beside them as they both clamber up onto the bench with their little legs, fabric of their corduroy shorts catching on the red painted wood. A skinny little blond boy is covered from head to toe in cuts and bruises, sporting a black eye and a gash dripping onto his shirt collar, the red stain growing by the minute. Ms. Oswald dabs a bit of cotton with antiseptic and presses it to the bleeding wounds, harshly telling him off for always getting into mischief. 

“Those boys were picking on Martha, Ms. Oswald and I just couldn’t stand it anymore!” He protests emphatically, his voice high and clear, waving about his tiny little hands and skinny little arms. Bucky’s eyes go wide as he recognizes Steve as a child, in trouble again for picking fights with the bigger boys. Their teacher chides Steve, advising him not to shout in the main hallway, so close to the secretary’s office, and holds his knees to get him to stop fidgeting so she can finish bandaging the abrasions on his skin, covered in dirt from tumbling down in the grass. He mumbles an apology and shares a tiny smile with his friend beside him. It is him, Bucky is sure; the boy sitting silently on the bench is himself. He recognizes the blue button down shirt, and the shoes a size too large for his feet that belonged to a cousin, or a neighbor’s kid. He kicks his legs as he sits quietly, feet dangling above the tiled floor. He pushes his little grey cap back from his forehead, his brown hair a tangled mess his mother will not appreciate when he returns home that afternoon. He does not return Steve’s smile, instead choosing to stare straight ahead at the clock on the wall past the open door across from them. The seconds tick by. It is almost noon, and Ms. Oswald will either have to let them go back to class or send Steve home, again. When Mrs. Oswald is done, she goes to “have a chat” with their principal, a man by the name of Mr. Wilkins, and promises to be right back to escort them to class. Steve picks at his bandages, gingerly pressing his stubby fingers to the shiner on his left eye, which he holds a cold towel to. Turning to Bucky, he presses him with questions, trying to get him to say something. Finally, his friend can stand it no longer, and fixes him with a deadly glare. His little fists grab Steve’s collar and shake him roughly. 

“Shut up, Steve! Don’t talk to me. You promised to keep your nose out of everyone else’s trouble and you lied to me. You haven’t done anything.” Bucky bursts out, tears beginning to drip down his chin. He angrily wipes them away. 

“Bucky,” Steve says, face crumpling into despair. He doesn’t want his best pal mad at him. Especially not when his best pal is his only pal. “Buck, I’m sorry. I tried to be good, honest, I did.”

Bucky scoffs, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “Lousy try. Some friend you are, Rogers.” He hops down off the bench and walks a few steps away, but cannot truly storm off because he has to wait for Ms. Oswald. Suddenly he turns back around, tears threatening to spill over his cheeks again. “Why’d you always have to fight people, Stevie? What did the whole world do to you?”

Steve opens his mouth to respond, knowing Bucky has already forgiven him, when their educator returns to lead them back to class. Bucky spends the rest of the day practicing his penmanship, and Steve sits in the corner with a flat, thin reader. All Ms. Oswald says is, “You are lucky James was there to stop them, Steven. Don’t let this happen again. He may not always be there to protect you.”   

Bucky awakes from his dream slowly, eyes peeling open as fragmented chords of the memory still tug persistently at the edges of his thoughts.He finds himself still locked in Steve’s embrace, the child quick to fight now a grown man, an old man living a much longer and more interesting life than he dreamed he ever would.  _ “He may not always be there to protect you.”  _ Looking back, Bucky comes to the conclusion that Ms. Oswald was wrong. There would never be a time in their previous lives where Bucky wasn’t beside Steve to protect him. That was their dynamic, it was what Bucky was meant to do. He was so desperately enthralled by this punny little scrap who thought all the world was his stomping grounds, a place of challenge to go hunting out mistakes in. He loved Steve, even before he knew he did, or had the courage to think it to himself, and protecting him was what he was meant to do. He could and would always protect his friend, and when the Captain waltzed into his life in Italy, he tried his damn hardest to protect that new man too. Bucky knew that this newfound power meant Steve wouldn’t need him as much anymore, and he was right. Bucky spent many nights up late, eyes glazed with green jealousy as he tried to find reasons to hate Peggy for loving Steve, but couldn’t. He of all people understood why you loved a man like Steve Rogers. He died still protecting him, and then everything he was was torn away from his flesh and he was remolded into a tool for cruelty and oppression. And now, together again, Bucky knew he would use his last breath to be there when Steve needed him. It wasn’t a matter or loyalty or morality, or even mortality. It was just the fact that there was an order to this universe they lived in, and whether or not Bucky Barnes agreed with it, the way of it was that he and Steve were a pair, and Bucky would go to the ends of the earth for him if asked. He would suffer everything he had all over again if it meant he could save Steve’s sorry ass one more time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> btw, the draft/enlistment thing is total bullshit I made up because its unclear what happens in the mcu. Apparently, according to my research, Bucky's serial number implies he was drafted after or around 1942 from NY, but in CATWS, the Smithsonian exhibit says he willingly enlisted after Pearl Harbor, and like sorry but Steve was always the one who wanted to serve his country and I doubt anything was more important to Bucky Barnes in fucking December of '41 than keeping his stupid punk ass alive so.... yea. Just like Steve's medical record in CATFA versus the one at the old Marvel HQ in Disneyland, that thing called 'continuity' seems to be ignored when it comes to these two knuckleheads.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I've been sleeping with these,  
> I've been sleeping with these thoughts, man  
> I've been contemplating singing them.  
> So stand up, catch fire with me.
> 
> I'm scared, I may derail.
> 
> You can follow them to hell.
> 
> This kid's not alright."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TEN CHAPTER???? gwfheoijfm wowowowowowow i love anyone who read this far

Strangers show up at the tower one morning, just before noon. He and Steve are in their apartment, Bucky lying beside Steve on the couch, his legs covering the Captain’s as Rogers attempts to watch whatever’s on TV over Bucky’s shoulder, his chin resting just below the curve of his neck. Bucky doesn’t actually know what they’re watching… Some history program on Renaissance art he believes from the vague snippets of dialogue or flashes of cracking, muted colors painted on canvases or in frescoes on walls that make it past the barrier of thoughts distracting him, but he couldn’t say for sure. He is only certain it has nothing to do with the time period in which they both lived before or during the War. Steve jokes that there’s “no point in watching a program on something we lived through,” but he can tell that any sudden reminder of their past lives is rather uncomfortable and unwelcome for Steve; for either of them. Bucky couldn’t focus on the show anyways, not with Steve’s steady heat pressed against the curve of his back, and his mind is lost to thinking about their time apart when his own carelessness delivered him to HYDRA’s eager hands, and Steve’s dedication to recover him. Barnes knows he’d do exactly the same in Steve’s position, hell, he’d have burned the whole world before he let Roger’s slip through his grasp  _ now _ , but it is still sometimes amazing to him how much the man cares for him as a friend, a partner, an ally… A lover. He never wants to force Steve into that predicament again, not if he can help it. This train of thought is interrupted by the chime of JARVIS announcing that they have visitors, and Captain Rogers presence in the debriefing room is required and desired immediately. 

Steve sits up with a slight frown, intrigued. He questions the interface, but JARVIS will provide no further insight, insisting Steve discover the answer for himself when he arrives. His brow furrows only for a moment as he looks questioningly at Bucky, not wondering anymore why he is wanted, but asking if the man will be alright on his own for a while while Steve is gone, but it is banished from his face as soon as Bucky stands and makes his way to the door before Steve can even think to stop him. He shrugs softly, mulling it over. He doesn’t care if they don’t want Barnes there… They’re a team, and Bucky wants to know if Steve is put in danger. They both head down in the elevator to the debriefing room where they had been not too long ago, about to steal off in the night to fight Rumlow. They find there waiting for them, leaning back dangerously far in his chair, feet pushing against the glass table, a pensive looking Tony Stark, accompanied by a tallish man with light brown hair, a starched suit, and a wide smile that wrinkles his whole face. His eyes light up as Cap enters the room, and his partner, a lithe but hard looking woman with dark hair who seems entirely capable of kicking anyone else’s ass there, rolls her eyes towards the ceiling with a sigh. Coulson stands upon Steve’s entrance and then sort of lingers with his arms half raised, looking uncomfortable for a moment before Melinda’s sharp tug returns him to his seat.

 

“Cap!” Phil Coulson breathes excitedly, a little dazed… As though he never quite expects Steve to look so majestic every time they meet, even in his grey tee shirt and sweats as he is, before quickly coughing into a fist and correcting himself. Stark raises his eyebrows in an amused manner, sitting up a little in his chair, tipping even further towards the edge of falling backwards. “I mean-Mr. Rogers, Steven… Steve! I- _ Captain _ , we have a mission that needs completing-that is, if you want-”

 

The woman, with an irritated glance at the Director of SHIELD, pushes him aside easily and cooly approaches Steve without any starstruck hesitation. “Agent May, Melinda May, Captain Rogers. We spoke over the comms.” She says bluntly, cutting straight to the chase. Steve offers her his hand, but she doesn’t shake it, instead producing a small box from her pocket and placing the silver cube on the table, where a blue, hazy projection emerges to show him a map with coordinates. 

Then she checks herself and directs a pointed glance over Steve’s shoulder at Bucky, hanging back behind him against the wall, her hand immediately reaching behind her to shut off the projection of the mission plan. Coulson turns to look as well and catches Bucky’s gaze. 

 

“Agent Barnes! Hello! I don’t know if you remember me, ah, I think we met once or twice… Before you-” He breaks away awkwardly as he sees that Bucky has no recollection of him. He laughs softly, embarrassed, and rubs at the back of his neck with a dark silver appendage that Bucky recognizes as Tony’s own handiwork. He catches Bucky’s noticing and waves the hand at him with a small smile. “Oh, this, yeah… There was an incident where I almost died because of Cree alien tech.” He wiggles the metal fingers, thinking back to the stinging flame of Mack’s ax as it severed his stony hand. “Looks like we’re part of a club now… Along with Luke and Anakin Skywalker!” At Bucky’s blank stare, he laughs uncomfortably again and goes quiet. Steve makes a mental note to have Bucky start his own list of things to catch up on. He keeps missing pop culture references that seem to be so vital to conversation these days.

 

May is still staring pointedly at Barnes. Bucky’s arms are crossed over his chest, and he inclines his head towards her nonchalantly. Broadcasting into the space the sort of greeting that holds a false sense of casualness beneath his stubborn intention to stay where he is, Bucky meets her eyes with a steeled gaze, and May’s lips purse into a thin, disapproving line.  She raises one eyebrow before tossing her head back to look at Stark, her expression changing to one of mild disgust and hostile judgment at his childish and stupid antics. He is still barely upright, now trying to balance a pencil on the tip of his finger as he turns the cube over in the other hand, observing the mechanism curiously. 

 

“Stop that!” She snaps sharply, snatching it back and replacing it onto the table. 

 

He grins at her, and then jerks his head towards Bucky. “He’s fine…” Stark drawls, waving a now empty hand in her general vicinity dismissively. “I doubt he’d leave you alone with Steve anyhow, it will be faster to let him stay.” He adds, eyes still on the cube. May relents with a toss of her head, casting her eyes back down as she reopens the projection of the map. 

 

“Captain Rogers, here you see a map of a location recently active on our spectrum for criminal activity. We suspect hints of HYDRA agents, since the location is in close proximity to an old SHIELD base. We’d like you to go investigate, if you don’t mind… With help from Agent Romanoff once she returns from her current mission in Baghdad.” May goes on, pointing a finger at the red dot on the map signifying the base. The map shifts, panning out to show the area surrounding the base. “There are three entry points off the main road, here, here and here. The one at the end is the safest and most secluded, but also the most used. Therefore, its still got an active security system that was left running after the base shut down. You’ll have to examine the electric fence and disable it, along with the minefield just outside the property border.”

 

“Minefield? That doesn’t seem too safe for the civilian town just outside the base.” Steve cuts in with a raised eyebrow, finger drawing a line to a small village not twenty feet away from the area. “The fence doesn’t enclose the armed area… Don’t you think that is a bit-”  

 

“Certain precautionary measures had to be taken to protect the base.” May cut in, her tone dry. “The base was used to hold secret SHIELD intel and weaponry. That entrance led directly to the armory, which is why keeping it locked was such a high priority, even at the risk of a few casualties.” Steve looks very unsettled and anger simmers just below his cool composure. Bucky takes a step forward just in case this turns ugly. “The civilians for the most part have learned to stay away; there hasn’t been an accident there in years. The base is empty now, the only ones interested in it are HYDRA. We believe they hope some artillery is still left behind.”

Steve crosses his arms, unsure, as the hologram zooms out, a red line forming a path between the tower and the location. It isn’t far, only a state over. They could be in and out in a day, depending on how much he and Nat end up finding. Steve agrees to the mission, and as May pockets the cube, JARVIS supplies that he will dispatch the necessary coordinates and maps, along with mission data, into a file sent directly to Agent Romanoff’s device. With a wave that seems more sarcastic than genuine, she departs, leaving Coulson, who bids them goodbye cheerfully, to follow behind her out onto the street and into a waiting cherry red, classic car that Tony remarks looks suspiciously like it can fly as he watches them retreat from the window.

 

A few days later, the recollection of the memory in his dream resurfaces for Bucky. Steve has gone out, to help Natasha investigate some sort of explosion in New Jersey near the old SHIELD holding facility. Apparently, the possible HYDRA agents they were set to look into once Natasha got back figured out how to use the minefield to disable to security fence. May forgot to mention it was once also a POW prison of sorts for the other side’s agents. They must hurry if they want to catch the agents before they find anything left behind by accident after SHIELD’s collapse, human or weapon. He asks if Bucky will be alright on his own, worried furrow to his golden brow and apprehension pouring from his gaze. Bucky assures him he will be fine by himself and half shoves him out the door, even making a sarcastic comment about not forgetting to bring home milk, just to make Steve smile again. In truth, he isn’t sure if he can handle being by himself, and only agreed because he could tell Steve was being eaten up by his emotions. He wouldn't talk to Bucky about them, probably because he felt like he couldn’t, and Bucky knew getting out of the Tower would be good for him. Maybe, if he has to, he can wander downstairs into the common room and pretend he had sensed danger, then sit on the couch while the others stare at him. Perhaps Barton will ask if he wants to play Mario kart or something. He could kick ass at Mario Kart. That or he can always call Wilson and ask him over. Not that he ever has before, at least not when Steve wasn't around, but Bucky is pretty sure Sam won’t mind. Hell, Steve probably had already told half of his team that he would be gone and to keep an eye on the ex-assassin. 

Barnes mills around their apartment for a while, picking up pillows and trinkets and setting them back down, slightly askew, in different locations when he was done absentmindedly fiddling with them. Buck begins to wish Steve and Natasha had asked if he wanted to accompany them to the site and help the analysis. He was there when the mission was assigned. Still, even if Steve wanted to have asked, he knew that the Captain would have been advised by Romanoff not to. She knew Bucky still wasn’t entirely stable and that even something minor could set him off. Bucky isn’t so stupid that he can't realize where they were going once held HYDRA agents, along with weaponry, and that the captive atmosphere wouldn’t be too far a step away from what he had experienced with HYDRA himself. Bucky knows they are looking out for his best interests at heart, but he feels alone and listless. Plus, the threat of danger to Steve nags at the back of his mind, especially after his dream. He thinks of their teacher’s ominous advice, that there would be a time when Bucky wasn’t there to protect Steve and that something bad would happen if the little boy wasn’t careful. 

Now, Bucky knows Steve is fully capable of handling himself, and that he has the red-haired agent to protect him if needed. And Bucky trusts her to look after the Captain, since he had trained her himself. He knows all too well how tough training camps for the Black Widow programme were, and has no doubt in her abilities. This still doesn't leave him feeling any more reassured of Steve’s safety. Ever since that night, Bucky had felt slightly on the edge, as though it really would come to pass that Bucky would not be there to protect Steve when Steve needed him. 

The super soldier decides that he has had enough of this, aimlessly waiting around for a man who doesn't need Bucky to worry about him. He slams the door on his way out, jabbing the elevator button with his finger so hard he almost thinks he broke it and the vessel won't  come. Still, the sleek steel circle lights up with a blue glow, and the whirring of the rising elevator can be heard from behind the two chrome doors before him. Bucky turns his head to the side, peering at his disfigured reflection in the glossy sheets of metal. His long hair hangs in his face, dripping like muddy rain, and his eyes are hardened with the sharp knives of all he had experienced and seen when a sharp knife was what he held in his hand. His shoulder muscles tighten as he realizes that when he looks at himself, all he can see is Pierce. Pierce,  Dr. Ivchenko and Whitehall. Pierce's sickening smile as he told The Asset he would be the light amongst the darkness of humanity's shadow, the liberator of all evils and that he was so close to protecting the world. Whitehall's unflinching determination in his tasks, pushing him harder and harder to give up himself and bend to his will, a steely determination of concentration that never wavered in his glasslike eyes, cold, unfeeling and inhuman within a scrutinizing gaze. Ivchenko twisting that silver ring on his finger, glinting as he murmurs,  _ “Comply, comply, comply, comply, comply, comply, COMPLY.”  _

Bucky tosses his head up with an anguished snarl, trying to force the images of these vile captors from his mind, but they swim before his gaze unheeded. The more he tries to forget the stronger they appear until they feel all too real, like he is trapped beneath their expectant threats yet again. All that he can see in himself now is their influence, turning him into something like them, and it makes his stomach drop, feeling sick. He brusquely turns away on his heel, one fist clenching into a white knuckled ball, pulse pumping through his palm, and the other ball curls into a humming mass of metal, warning beep alerting him that too much pressure is being applied. He stalks away swiftly from the lift, heading towards the stairs, feet stomping onto the marbled floor in heavy boots. He reaches the stairwell, often only used in a state of emergency by the Tower's members. He throws open the wooden door, practically wrenching off the handle and flies down the concrete steps three at a time. His pulse is rising as he goes into a state of panic, imagery of his captors stirring in his mind and bubbling up unannounced to the surface of his vision. 

These men, forcing him down and goading him on until he complied, brainwashing him so that he listened, believing they were doing what was best for him and for the nation. He is still trapped, still stuck in the labyrinth of lies they spun around him to keep him from rebelling all those years. There is no escape; he has to make it downstairs. Reaching the commons room three floors down, he finds it empty. All the lights are out and an eerie stillness permeates his surroundings. Barton is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he got called out to Jersey to aid Steve and Nat. Banner isn't present either, nor is Stark. Maybe they are off studying scientific advancement together...or maybe Stark has gone home to a mansion with Pepper and Banner has returned to India to meditate his chi, or whatever. Maybe he is left all alone with no one to protect. 

Breath coming in heaving gasps, Bucky falls on his knees. His shoulders shudder as he places his head between his thighs, hands tearing at the roots of his tangled hair, misty eyes leaking against the denim of his jeans. His legs feel numb and distant, like he is no longer a part of them. Standing up would be impossible. His hand shakes so heavily that it begins to feel as though it has drifted apart into all its separate atoms, exploding in a minute Big Bang and dividing apart from him. His face feels cold, his lips like ice upon his skin. His eyelids flutter beneath his hooded lids and he tosses his head from side to side. Enough of this, enough of being afraid. He hates these men, hates how their cruel laughter echoes in his ringing ears and hates how he can feel his chest rise and fall as he barks out a breathless laugh along with them. He is one of them and that will never change. Bucky will just return again like a good lapdog and never see Steve again. Steve doesn't need a beast like him for protection anyways. He's a danger, a terror, a monster. That's all they've ever perceived him to be and so that is what he has become. Lurching up with a cry that is ripped from his throat like a savage thing in pain, he thrashes forward towards the large mirror hung upon the wall. In the dark everything reflected is muted shades of purple and grey, like inky bruises upon flesh. His own eyes are blow wide, pupils consuming the thin rim of shimmering blue. His head feels heavy and his neck cannot support the deadweight. 

He hears his own shallow exhale distantly, mind constantly swooping and dipping as he drops out, not consciously present, only to return moments later. His own face is ghostly white and his teeth clench so hard that his lip begins to bead with droplets of blood, black in the light. He flicks out his tongue, blood flecking across the surface of the mirror. Blood on his face; an image only too familiar to his tired eyes. The fist rears up without warning, and he himself is surprised to hear the disgusting crunch of bone against the synthetic shatter of glass as a large web of deep set cracks blooms across his mirrored image. His fist brushes the back wall behind the frame and he pulls it out quickly, the glass exploding out against him, shards cutting his face to tiny ribbons and sparking like stardust on his wet lashes. The knuckles are split open, warm liquid oozing from his torn skin onto the floor and pooling at his feet amongst the chips of icy glass. Bruises will surely garnish the humps of joints, shaking in agitation, tomorrow, and then dark spots around his gaze swell and grown until everything is hazy. He hits the floor with a resounding thud, finally still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, did you think they didn't fuck with bucky's brain? yea.... they fucked with bucky's brain. :(


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I don't sleep so well at night  
> Waiting up and shivering  
> Heater's gone and money's tight  
> In this little home that I'm living in
> 
>  
> 
> What is with you?  
> I've never seen this side of you
> 
>  
> 
> We are all living  
> Till we grow older  
> You be the worker  
> I'll be the soldier
> 
> I never hear those sounds that sing to me  
> Cha ching, cha ching, cha ching-a-ling."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oOP

The next thing Bucky knows, he's lying on a cement sidewalk, a bustle of city life blazing around him. Cars honk their horns as they pass each other in the crowded streets, and swarms of people frolick the city. The sun shines hot in the sky, casting an orange glow on everything and everyone in the crowd. Ladies sniff and open parasols to block the stifling rays, or even more cluster together beneath shop awnings and shaded doorways, shading their faces with menus or small fans, and small children dressed in plainclothes and rags run in excitement towards trucks delivering large blocks of ice, hoping the workmen will chip off a few bits for them to suck on. 

“Buck? Hey, Buck? You okay?” A kind voice inquires. A figure swims before Bucky’s eyes, and for a moment he could swear on his ma that boy was lit from behind with the sun like a halo crowning his tawny scruff. The shape comes into place, a hand stretching down to help him up. He takes it, fingers locked in a firm grip that yanks him to his feet, though the boy beside him stumbles a little, tripping over himself. Blue, smiling eyes come into focus set in a handsome and young face, lightly doused with a sheen of sweat. Bucky wipes his own forehead with the back of his hand, and doesn’t even blanch at the fact that both are flesh. He realizes the boy grinning back at him is Steve, all skinny 95 pounds of him. His collar is loose and the blue fabric of his shirt is coming untucked from his trousers. The toes of his shoes are scuffed but he skips alongside Bucky as they continue to walk down the sidewalk, passing girls who smile at him, arm in arm, and toss their heads full of thick curls and ringlets. Some preen and bat their lashes, while others sneak glances from behind shop windows or the edges of flyers held in their hands. Bucky doesn’t really see any of them, and is only focused on Steve.

“I’m fine… Must’ve been this heat, then. Made me faint, or somethin’, Stevie.” Bucky responds, voice higher than he remembers. He sees the concern behind Steve's easy smile and he rushes to quelch it. “Hey, I’m good, alright punk?” He repeats, looking Steve in the eyes before rushing forward to shove at him playfully. “Quit worrying about me, Rogers! You’re not my ma!” He teases, glad to see it brings back a natural grin to his friend's face. “Let’s sneak into a picture, it’s too hot to stay out here.” He suggests, and Steve agrees so the two of them head towards the cinema. 

Running through the lobby and ducking beneath the confections counter draped with imitation velvet cloth, they manage to crawl past the  _ maitre d’  _ and concierge again. The boy taking tickets at the front is gazing listlessly at the posters of Shirley Temple and Charlie Chaplin in  _ Poor Little Rich Girl  _ and  _ Modern Times _ , and so does not pick up on their entrance through dark blue curtains into theater two, which at present is about to begin screening  _ Libeled Lady _ with Jean Harlow. It’s a comedy of sorts, Steve has heard, and they settle in the back to view it, free of charge. They’re broke, but at least they still have some kind of fun together. 

Not shortly after the second half of the movie begins, a late arrival is helped by a boy in a red uniform with a flashlight to her seat, and the Brooklyn boys are discovered, lounging back in cush spots that aren’t theirs by proof of purchase. The boy furrows an angry brow at them, scowling. The manager is waved over from the front, and the incident is brought to his attention. He knows these two, and cocks an annoyed but accepting hip at them as he stares them down in a way that says, _ “You do this so often, I’m used to it-but that doesn’t mean I like it!” _ Of course, the two are hefted up by their collars and thrown none too kindly form the esteemed establishment for film-viewing pleasure, if you can pay. A guard dumps them against the rust-colored brick wall of a back alley, slamming the heavy door shut behind him. They will not be getting back in today. Dusting themselves off, Bucky spits in his direction. 

“Come on!” Steve cries in protest, though the man is long gone by now and no one cares to hear him. He throws his hands up in the air in agitation. “You could’ve at least let us finish with our picture!” Bucky scoffs a hushed laugh at his impertinence. From behind them, the scuffle of feet can be heard as a gang of about four big boys approaches. 

“So,” the toughest looking one sneers at them. He has a fat upper lip and a dusting of harsh freckles. He looks dirty, and probably is. His left hand sports an expensive looking pair of brass knuckles Bucky knows for a fact he had to have stolen, and most likely is only wearing for sport, for show. Clearly, judging by the way the other boys stare at him with knowing eyes and crack their knuckles, pounding their fists into their palms, he is the leader. “You pansies get throw outta there for seeing the reruns of  _ Snow White _ ?” His cohorts bark cruel, brutish laughs at the two of them. 

_ Don’t say anything stupid, Stevie. _ Bucky thinks. “No! We were seein’  _ Libeled Lady  _ with Spencer Tracy! And no one’s gonna tell us what we can and can’t see, you stinkin’ bruno!” Steve shoots back. Bucky wants to smack himself in the face.  _ He said something stupid.  _ Barnes tenses, prepared either to flee or stand his ground and fight. He can guess which option Steve is going to choose, and prepares for bruised knuckles and a split lip, maybe another gash with stitches above his left eyebrow. At least while he had that, he looking sort of like a dashing thug. They lunge at Steve, shoving him down as he kicks out, just happening to get lucky and clip the third joe’s shin. He grunts out in pain and comes back with more force, aiming for Steve’s skull with his fists. They pummel him as Bucky moves to help, dodging the leader. He grabs Buck by his ankle and yanks it down, and the boy falls onto the street, wind knocked out of his heaving lungs. He flips back up and advances on Steve’s aggressive attackers, beating them back with hard fists. Brass knuckles come flying towards his right jaw, but he picks up a plank of wood from a broken crate and cracks it down on the bone. The wrist audibly snaps and the hand goes limp, metal weaponry clattering to the floor. Leader thug howls in pain and his goons try to land in a few more blows before they leave Steve in the dust at their feet. He is wrecked, clothes torn and mussed, stained with mud or blood or both. His skin is sporting more black and blue hues than pale cream colors, a continual green tinge to his cheeks. He is at this point too sad and pathetic to end. Bucky had managed to defend them quite well with Steve’s passionate help, and fares much better, though still banged up by these guys looking to start a fight. The leader, a boy Bucky now thinks he recognizes as Richie Janikowski from Queens, bats a hand at them like they aren’t worth his time. 

“Eh, you two are just lucky, ‘suppose. This runt here wouldn’t be nothing without you, Jimmy.” He says to James. “Correction, ‘scuse me, he’d be  _ dead _ . Stupid puny troublemaker.” He spits in Steve direction, before turning to go, beckoning his boys with the good hand before returning it to his chest to cradle his broken wrist. 

The second boy from the mix looks back as they exit the alley, eyes cold and dark as he shoots them glares. 

“Yea, and we all know Rogers here only hangs around you for protection, Barnes. You’re just some kid with good looks that hangs around other pretty men.” He seethes at them, and another member of their group coughs into his fist very indiscreetly, muttering, “queer” under his breath. “If he didn’t need you, he’d be gone like that,” he continues with a snap of his grimy digits. “But lord knows what  _ you _ stick with him for.” He finishes, pretending to ponder it as though it is a taxing puzzle, though his sarcastic tone hints at his lude assumptions. The others all laugh, mumbling their agreement as they stalk away. Bucky hefts Steve up, praying he was too out of it to hear that.

“Don’t lissen ta dem, Buck.” Steve slurs, head swimming. Though his feet fail him, he insists on walking by himself home. Bucky keeps his hands at ready, standing by to catch the smaller boy when he falls over himself.  _ Shit, he heard.  _ “They’re just...jerks, the whole lot of ‘em.”  

 

“Steve, we’re all idiots. Let’s agree on that and head home. I feel like I’ve been put through the gears on that conveyer belt like Chaplin. Soon  _ I’ll _ be the one having a nervous breakdown all thanks to you!” He huffs out, an edge to his tone, though Steve knows he isn’t truly upset. Eventually, they reach his home and he settles Steve on the couch with some ice and bandages, as well as the last dregs of gin, since he has no other antiseptic. They make quick work of the process of nursing themselves back to health, tending to any bumps, bruises, and open wounds. Still, the silence lasts an eternity and Bucky feels as though the whole ordeal, drags on forever. Steve hasn’t said one word to him since his dismissal of the boy’s taunts in that back alley, and as they continued their task he was sobered more and more, brain reaching higher levels of clarity. If he could not before comprehend their earlier implications, he sure as hell can now and chooses to say nothing on the subject. Bucky takes his stoic lack of input as a sign that he is trying to reject this image of Bucky, ignoring it in favor of one that does not disgust and appall him. Barnes just wants this over and done with so he can crawl off to bed. 

“Hey, uh, hey pal,” He ekes out awkwardly, feeling the tense break of the quiet between them as he clears his throat and tries to speak. “You doing alright, there?” 

Steve only hums in agreement, answering with a nod of his head. His hair bobs as he tilts his chin down, peering at the white gauze he tries to tie onto his split knuckles, tongue poking out from between his teeth in mute concentration. Bucky, having finished up and now reassuring himself that Steve hasn’t hurt himself too badly, creeps off to his bedroom, shutting the door softly behind him. He collapses on the mattress with a weary sigh, tears he didn’t know he had been repressing pricking incessantly at the corners of his eyes the moment his face is buried into a thin pillow. The last bits of him shatter inside as he realizes that when he wakes up, Steve might not be there waiting for him on the couch. He might never come back now, not after what he just heard. If those boys set him on the track that he only stays out of self-interest, his pesky sense of pride could cause him to walk out on his best friend forever, refusing to accept the help offered to his skinny ass once in a while. Even worse is the notion that when Bucky arises from the sleep he doesn’t want to fall into, but is being lulled away to by the shutting of his warming eyelids as he thinks, Steve will be there waiting for him still, words in his mouth spewing accusations out into the dark, and awaiting answers that die before they leave Bucky’s tongue. Steve will be there because they were right, and he needs Bucky. Not because he enjoys his company, but because he truly needs that extra fist, that shield, that protection Barnes offers to him, even if he refuses to admit it. All this time, his brotherly bond with Steve could have been nothing more than the scrap furthering his own agenda. All he wants is a shield to protect him, and Bucky can’t even do that.

When Bucky is stirred in his sleep by this flashback of fearing rejection, failure, misery, the words and thoughts of the past running parallel to the present, he is still pressing his face into the pillow, murmuring to the ears of said man closeby, “ _ Steve, Steve… I hope it’s still the same.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wtf is up with me and the back to back flashbacks yiKES


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Begging like you might take order in your own hands.  
> I stare, it seems like I don't care, drop a chance in your hands then.  
> I know that bad's got to fix itself, correct over time.  
> And I know 'cause I've got the cure, I've got a cure for your crimes."

Bucky arises slowly about an hour later, eyes squinting shut against the bright light beaming into his face. He sits up gingerly, blinking as his eyes adjust to the light and presses the metal hand to his aching forehead with a muffled groan, scrubbing his face. He rears his head with an exaltation, hissing curses as he finds the skin is peppered with cuts scabbed over, some of the larger ones having white bandage squares covering the stitches. He vaguely remembers bits of clear material slashing his face up. His shoulder feels sore, like he slammed it against the floor. He rubs at it with his metal appendage, finding that his flesh hand is wrapped in gauze, brown with dried blood, and a thin cast. Turning his head to the left, he finds Steve sitting there, trying to contort his massive frame so it fits inside a cramped, metal desk chair. The chair is small, chromed and of a very modern fashion. It looks like something Pepper would have picked out. Bucky realizes that he is still at the Tower, not in a hospital like he thought. He’s dressed in a clean shirt, and a pair of grey sweatpants. His feet are bare and cold as he rolls over and sets them tentatively on the tiled floor. He pulls them back up with an audible hiss in the room, silent save for the sounds of Steve’s heavy exhales through his nose. He has dozed off, chin resting cupped in the palm of his right hand, the arm leaning on the hard, uncomfortable looking armrest for support. Bucky stares at him, sitting there. He looks at him,  _ really  _ looks at him. For once, he isn’t picking through every detail trying to call memories back to his savaged mind, nor is he taking every aspect into account, cataloging instinct a reminder of his former training, beaten into him until it became second nature. No, this time his eyes alight on Steve’s form as they try to make sense of the man before Bucky. 

His blond hair is swept back into disheveled clumps, sticking up at odd angles, as though he has been nervously running a hand through the honey colored strands over and over. His skin is windblown and pale as his palm rests against a cold cheek. His clothing is rumpled and looks lived in, meaning he came to find Bucky right away and has not left to change. It also means that Barnes has worryingly been mentally absent for more than a short time, perhaps more than a day. He looks haggard with anxiety and Barnes feels a pang of regret in his gut for scaring Steve that way. He has better things to do than fill his time up wringing his hands over the former assassin more than he already does, and Bucky had promised that he could be trusted on his own. Now he'd only broken that vow, left it in pieces on the ground like so many others, and Steve would no longer trust in his ability to support himself without the burly Captain around to hold his hand and help him back up when he stumbled. And that was something Bucky knew he needed to be able to do on his own, something he HAD to be capable of doing for himself, not just because he already consumed enough of Steve's energy, effort and emotion, but just because he owed it to himself to be self-sufficient again. Though he knew he was a long ways away from reaching that particular goal because the glory festooned super soldier was sitting before him once again, stripped of all his valiant praises and illusions of idolatry. He was just Steve now, Steve Rogers, the kid from Brooklyn who used to be the one half dead on the cot while Bucky sat by useless and full of dread, with no point in being there beyond fulfilling a promise to stay by his side, one he was no longer sure he had made to his friend or himself. 

But now, the roles were reversed, in a stroke of ironic luck that seemed to be shaping their fates. Steve had been on a mission, and after every mission there is a lengthy process of documenting information, medical examinations, debriefings, lots and lots of arduous, drawn out debriefings, and mission reports to write and file in the SHIELD database. Yet, Steve is  _ there _ , exhausted no doubt, and too busy to be sitting all cramped and curled into that god-awful modern monstrosity, but nonetheless there, slightly asleep as he waits for Barnes to reawaken after his outburst. Come to think of it, how did he get here? The last thing he recalls is his breakdown alone in the common room, before clearly passing out from pain, shock or both.  _ Most likely both, _ Bucky concludes wryly. He’s wearing new clothes though, and while it isn't a big deal, Bucky knows they are Steve’s, not his own. He also knows that if Steve were involved in his change of clothing selection, that he wouldn’t have let just anyone change him. The man knows how Bucky values giving consent to even the most minor of occurrences, especially those concerning his body, and that handing the task away blindly would be invalidating the understanding they have. Steve wouldn't betray that trust Bucky has put in him. 

At this point, Bucky starts to shift in agitation upon the cot he lies on, working out how it is he came to be there wrapped inexpensive white cotton sheets in the first place. It is enough to rouse Steve, who lifts his head wearily and blinks his bleary eyes rapidly until they focus on the wretch hanging over the edge of the cot, about to stand and escape this sickbed. 

His eyes immediately snap open and he is at attention in an instant. The blue irises are clear and bright, piercing into Bucky's core. "You're up." He states, not an accusation, merely a blunt observation. 

Bucky, still slightly surprised and also cursing his stupidity in making such a racket, lets out an affirmative grunt, not really meeting Rogers' eyes. 

Steve holds his gaze steady and purses his lips into a thin, pink line. "So?" He adds expectantly, leaning forward as though to hang on Bucky's every word. Bucky shrugs in response, casually lifting his bandage-covered hand as though to symbolize, "What?" nonverbally.  

Steve's golden brow furrows and he shoots his partner a glare. "Bucky, we have to talk about this. And I'm serious, you can't brush it off as a touchy subject this time. If something's wrong I need to know-" 

Bucky cuts him off with an annoyed huff, swatting his concern away with a wave of his industrialized appendage. "I don't want to talk about it. It's. Fine." He grits out, angling his body away from Steve in a petulant shift. 

"No! This isn't just about you anymore! Of course I'm worried," He adds when Bucky's face seems to fall at his sharp tone, placing a hand upon the muscled shoulder swathed in thin, grey cotton cloth. "But I found you...lying in a heap on the common room floor, fist busted, face streaked with-with tears, and surrounded by a sticky pool of dried blood and bits of the mirror shattered above your head!" Steve exclaims loudly, eyes becoming misty during this sudden outburst. He even looks shocked by his own reaction, clearing his throat and looking down before continuing in a professional manner. Gone is the harsh rasp of fear in his voice, replaced by the primed and calm vocalization that follows. "If there's an issue, Buck, you have to tell me. If someone attacked you, went after you, I have to inform the Director. Especially if it means they infiltrated the Tower, in which case I have to notify the team of a safety breach and get Tony to check security. If not, I need to know what's going on with you. No one would blame you for not being able to handle it all so soon after your return, Buck, they wouldn't. But if you can't be by yourself...I have to work with you on that. Make sure everyone can fulfill their duties without hurting you in the process. This time you hurt yourself, which is detrimental, but who's it gonna be next time around? Can you guarantee you won't wind up risking someone else's safety, or your own? We're part of a team now, and that means we can't  _ just  _ look out for  _ ourselves _ . You aren't an isolated character now, and I can't only think about the two of us surviving any longer. This concerns  _ all  _ of us. You can tell me, Bucky. I'm still on your side, till the end of the line." He sounds so broken by this point, so distantly happy, or tranquil, in a way that reveals he isn't coping well with this at all. Bucky realizes that Steve put more faith in his recovery than he could return in progress, and now his expectations were blown apart by the cruel reality that Bucky once again is not okay, and might never be again. He is trying to deal with it the best he can, but his cold and calculating sighs give away more than he’s letting on. He has no clue how to handle Bucky like this, and still he‘s putting forth his best false facade to try and feign control, still trying to reassure Bucky that it was all fine and everything would work out well. He is truly some sort of God, a saint. 

Bucky releases a heavy breath, licking his dry lips before speaking. His hands still shake slightly as he explains how dejected he'd felt at realizing Steve no longer needed him, and how the repressed memories of who he had been were bubbling to the surface and showing him he was nothing of value to anyone. Wiping his eyes with his metal fingertips pressed to his eyelids, he even blurts out the nostalgic tale of their alley fight and how he'd thought the boy they'd bruised was right; that Steve really only was with him to achieve an ends to a mean and now that he knew what people thought his own reason for being with Steve was, that he'd leave...that he’s afraid that's what will happen now. Steve might not know how to accommodate this behavior and will leave Bucky, whether of his own will, or the general consensus of the team’s displeasure forcing his hand in turning the ex-assassin away. He turns around to face Steve again, his eyes huge and round, azure, and  _ pleading  _ with the Captain to prove him wrong, to deny all these accusations and promise Bucky he won’t leave him. Bucky hates doubting Steve, and he knows most of his superstitious worries are only paranoia induced by his own anxiety and self-loathing, but still he needs to hear it. Steve has to say it to him, and his eager ears await the words forming on Rogers’ tongue. 

Steve’s face is blank with shock, and he gapes at Bucky before standing up so quickly he topples over the disturbing desk chair. It clangs and clatters against the tiled flooring, legs striking against the ground with an echoing metallic sound that causes Bucky to flinch. Steve pays no mind, in fact he seems to not even have noticed as he launches into a lecture, words sharp as they throw themselves in Bucky’s direction.

“Is that what you think? That I’ll leave you because of what happened?” He declares, tone of voice made louder by the silence in the small room and his accompanying steely glare, seeming too astounded even for these words. Bucky’s stomach sinks in chill shame. “We  _ all  _ have our issues, Bucky. Every single one of us. But none of us have to suffer them alone. How many times do I have to tell you I’m not gonna leave you before you believe it? I’ll tell you every day if that’s what it takes. Know why? Because I’m  _ serious  _ when I say that. I’m not going to abandon you. 

“You’re my best friend, and I love you. I  _ love  _ you, Bucky. I’m not--I wouldn’t… I can’t leave you. Not when you need me,or even when you don’t, because I need you too, and I’ll admit to that. Why would you ever think I would?” He concludes with a dejected frown, “You’ve been with me my whole life, Buck. And for the few years you weren’t, I was a mess… Ask anyone else in this building. You keep me together.” Steve leans forward, clearly meaning to reach for Bucky, but the sudden movement unnerves him, and he twitches away.

“Sorry.” Steve apologizes quickly, “Sorry, I just… Can I…?” He looks so baleful with those ridiculously blue puppy-dog eyes that Bucky actually quirks a small grin.

“Yeah,” he nods, and reaches out with his injured hand. Steve places his own warm hand over Bucky’s wrist, and he can feel it all the way in his chest. Bucky looks down at his bare feet, still hanging over the edge of the cot he sits upon. A chagrined wave of heat rushes over him as he realizes how stupid he’s been acting. Of course Steve wouldn’t leave him, isn’t that what he swore never to do? And unlike Bucky, Steve is pretty good at keeping his word. “Steve, I don’t… I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t be so afraid all of the time, I just… I can’t help it. I’m not a good person, I’m not… honest. And everything I care about always falls apart in the end, so. I guess what I’m saying is that I wouldn’t be surprised if you left. You’re too good for me, and I’m undeserving. I expect it not to last, because getting my hopes up only makes it hurt more when it’s over and done.” He says, voice gravelly as he spits outs the words like their bitter taste in his mouth offends him; like he is repulsed by them and himself. 

Steve is crestfallen as he sees the smile fall quickly from Bucky’s lips, the light in his gaze becoming harsh and biting once again. “Do you really doubt me that much?” He inquires, voice small and soft. His words sound pained and Bucky instantly regrets what he said, thinking about how it must sound to Steve. He hushes Bucky’s frantic attempts to rectify what has been said with a raised hand and continues. 

“But I guess it isn't your fault, that you have your doubts. I mean, you hid part of who you were your whole life, only to be found by terrible people who manipulated you and used you.” He begins, trying to make sense of the way Bucky might be feeling, since he knows Bucky has always held the utmost faith in him. 

Bucky lashes out, teeth bared and face going red in his anger. “You think I don’t  _ know  _ that?! I know that all of my life, no one could know all the sins I committed. I only acted like that to distract myself from the fact that I couldn’t have  _ you _ !” He grits out violently, accusation in his tone. “I valued our bond too much to risk it and so I knew that all of that time I was weak, and pathetically trying to push my feelings for you onto someone else. And I know what HYDRA made me do once they found me, they made me a disgusting beast! I was a wretched  _ killer _ , and I didn’t think twice about leaving someone to rot in a cooling pool of their own  _ blood _ . I followed my orders, I obeyed  _ every  _ command and not once did I wait long enough for any of my actions to weigh heavy on my conscience, no, I did as I was told and _ I let them wipe me. _ But it wasn’t just because of the consequences when I didn’t comply. I couldn’t face myself, who I was, what they’d made me become. I didn’t want to remember any of it, and after so long it just became instinctual to let it happen. But I still can’t do it… I can’t own up to what I’ve done.” His fist curls up in a tense ball, and his shoulders are rigid as he pushes Steve’s hands away. 

“No, Bucky, it’s not like that… You’re only feeling so attacked because you  _ were-- _ ” He is saying slowly, trying to staunch the flood of self-hatred flowing from his lover’s lips, trickling down like glass green venom over pale rose-colored skin. It is too much and Bucky’s arm swings out, knocking Steve back, and driving them further apart. 

“I didn’t  _ ask _ to be this way!” He screams hysterically, and Steve feels a cold shock hit him in the chest at how much anguish Bucky puts into those few words. Bucky freezes, eyes wide with startled horror at his own actions against Steve. He shuts his eyes tightly, hands moving to press against his buzzing skull in an attempt to block out this destructive trauma. “I’m sorry,” He mumbles repeatedly, tiny, stray tears slipping out between his eyelids as he buries his chin further against his chest. Steve surges forward to catch him as the man falls bitterly to his knees, folding even more in on himself in introverted isolation. Rogers’  hands are steady as they support him, drawing the other form against his own body, pressing Bucky’s face securely against his torso. Bucky tilts his face up to look at Steve, eyes blinking open, damp cheek rubbing against the Captain’s shirt. 

“I’m sorry, Stevie. I didn’t--didn’t ask to be this way, I didn’t… I never asked,” He moans in a tinny voice, crushing his quivering mouth back against Steve’s stomach. Steve kneels down beside him, hands moving from his shaking elbows to his head, fingers curling into his dark hair. They haven’t bothered to get it cut since his return from the HYDRA base, and now the chestnut strands are beginning to reach the tips of his ears, coiling at odd intervals. Steve pinches sections of it between the pads of his fingertips and tugs gently on the locks to get Bucky to look at him again. “It’s alright. Bucky, I promise it’s alright now. You don’t have to be what HYDRA made you, that isn’t who you were.” He murmurs soothingly in the man’s ear, voice strained with remorse for his lover’s dreadful agony. 

“I never asked. For  _ any  _ of it.” Bucky repeats, voice small like a dazed child’s, shuddering breaths causing him to rock against the one holding him.He doesn’t just mean HYDRA, then, Steve concludes. He’s also talking about the persecution over sexuality, and Steve feels sick to his stomach at the thought of all the pain he’s carried. “And I can’t seem to be the way I used to be.”

Steve tightens his grip, chest heaving as he buries his face in Bucky’s hair, stuttering hands roaming over pale shoulders and neck, and his mouth meeting Bucky’s so suddenly his lips start to bruise. “No one’s asking you to.” He sighs into Barnes’ mouth and Bucky swallows his words whole like a merciful remedy, breath coming in short, trembling gaps. “No one would ever ask you to.” And though this reassurance offers comfort to the broken man laying in his grip, the unsaid addition hangs between them like dissipating smoke in the electrified air,  _ “No one… except me.”   _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> damn more angst... someone help my sons out lmfao
> 
> this is the last chapter (kinda short) before a BIG climatic point in the story, also where we stopped writing and skipped around to random points at the end, so i wouldn't be too eager for an update after this... i still need to piece those patchwork parts together, and connect them to the stuff already posted here. also we had A LOT more stuff on our outline to happen after the climax, and none of it is really written, so i want to revist the outline and see what i still feel like including, and what i might just remove if it doesn't add to the story. 
> 
> ALSO we started writing this a little while after CATWS came out. it was SUPPOSED to be finished before age of ultron, but that didnt happen, clearly. and let's be real, AOU was so laughably bad that we just decided to like... ignore it all together? 
> 
> but now i'm sort sad that the events didn't pan out because THE TWINS. so i might rework the outline to get those two in here. another thing is that it was my goal to absolutely have this done by the time civil war came out. this was always a bucky return and recovery fic, and i knew that once the canon of those events came out it would really screw with our plot. well, that's exactly what happened. while i didnt like everything about civil war (what staron kiss???????), i think its important to work some of those elements into the plot. initally we were just going to have a confrontation that led to civil war tension and leave it there because the movie hadnt come out yet, now i want to sort of work that timeline into this plot... if i can. if i have time HAHA. 
> 
> finally, the only reason i really care about doing any of this is BLACK PANTHER WAS SO FUCKING GOOD OH MY GOOOOOOOOOOOD AND THEY ALL DESERVE TO BE IN THIS UNIVERSE OMFG ;-; 
> 
>  
> 
> SPOILERS
> 
>  
> 
> holy shit white wolf!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i immediately burst into tears. and im actually stanning shuri for the rest of my life and bucky barnes deserves to show off an arm design by her in this fanfic and that's what i have to say about it holy shit


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